


the stone inside you

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Dom/Sub, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bloodplay, Dom Natasha, Dom Pepper Potts, Dom/sub, F/M, Gender Confusion, Happy Ending, Painplay, Spanking, Sub Steve, Sub Tony Stark, non-dynamic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is a sub. Natasha is a Dom. Too bad they don't know that.</p><p>(They work it out eventually.)</p><p>********<br/><em>Each chapter is a separate installment in this 'verse.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: accidental headspace, no/inadequate aftercare, sub-drop, general dynamic-related incompetence on both sides due to denial. Also, something that looks a lot like internalized misogyny (in this 'verse substitute 'submissive' for 'woman'). Second chapter (deleted scene) contains homophobic slur. 
> 
> Written for [this prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/11264.html?thread=25789440) on the Avenger Kink meme.

It started because Natasha fights dirty.

Well, no; it _started_ because the icon that lead America through the war couldn’t be an acquiescent submissive, because no powerful political leader was going to whisper hir secrets in the dark to an authoritative dominant.

But they _found out_ about it because Natasha fights dirty.

They had been getting close, ever since Stark, with his characteristic arrogant generosity, had invited all the Avengers to live in his ridiculous tower. Natasha never treated his cluelessness about the twenty-first century as ignorance — _culture shock_ , she shrugged, when he mentioned this to her, like it was nothing to be ashamed of. Steve had never thought of it that way.

Steve asked her to teach him some tricks — his hand-to-hand was textbook military and fifty years out of date, to boot. Natasha obliged him. He liked her, in a way that made him feel a little guilty about asking. Not that he’d ever take advantage of a submissive, but it still felt like it, when she showed up in nothing but a sports bra and tights.

“Fair warning,” Natasha said, tying back her hair, “Some of the techniques I use aren’t going to translate too well.”

Given that Natasha’s main strengths lay in speed and ruthlessness, while his were just plain strength, Steve had kind of suspected that already. But even learning to counter her style could be a valuable experience; the more he saw, the less likely he was to be surprised in an actual battle, and he told her as much.

She smiled at that, nodded in agreement, said, “Alright. I really hope you don’t have a thing about having your ass kicked by a sub.”

“If you were just any sub, I might,” Steve said, honestly. “But the Black Widow? My pride will survive.”

Natasha seemed to take this as a challenge, and introduced Steve to something called Krav Maga, which involved a lot of grappling and Natasha pulling props — mocked-up guns and knives and once, an asp — out of thin air. It was kind of fun, actually, even if Natasha did end with the advantage, more often than not. It was maybe a little bit too much fun, Steve realized as they rolled to a halt on the mat, Natasha panting under him, her fake gun pressed under his chin. If it had been a real fight, Steve knew, he’d already be dead — Natasha never hesitated in the field. Then she twisted, their legs intertwined, and Steve was suddenly, horribly aware that he was hard, pressing against her hip while he held her down.

“You really like me, huh,” Natasha said, with an arch look, but she was smiling her most honest smile, close-mouthed, pulled up on one side.

Steve scrambled off her, stuttering apologies.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Natasha assured him, following him up. “Don’t worry about it, Cap. Happens to a lot of Doms.” She smiled at Steve again, which made a confused warmth bloom in his chest.

“I didn’t mean any disrespect,” he told her.

Natasha looked askance at him. “I did say I was fine. And it isn’t disrespect unless you don’t listen when I tell you ‘no’.”

He felt himself frown at the thought. “I would never-!”

“I’m not saying you would — I know you better than that,” Natasha told him. “And, for the record, I’m not saying no, either.”

What she must think of him, unable to control himself as soon as he got a pretty sub under him. Still, if she said she was all right, he figured she knew better than he did. 

Then what she had just said registered, and Steve gaped at her.

“You want to? For me?” Not that he hadn’t ever, before, but he was always surprised when a beautiful sub wanted to give themselves to him.

Instead of replying, Natasha went to her knees in one easy movement and laid her remaining weapons — two stilettos and a throwing knife, and none of them the dull practice blades, either — on the mat in front of her, before crossing her arms behind her back.

She met his eyes for just a moment before she cast them down, and Steve thought of how she’d looked in that first battle, the moment before she’d launched herself into the air, coiled and powerful. All that force, all that ruthlessness and strength contained, made him ache with arousal. He carefully undid her ponytail and threaded his hands into her hair, asked, “Are red, yellow, and green okay?”

“Yes,” Natasha murmured, “Yes, sir.”

“Hard limits?” Steve prompted, going down his mental list — safewords, limits, consent.

Natasha didn’t raise her eyes, but she bared her teeth in a smile when she said, “Sir, I’m the Black Widow.”

She was testing him, so he tugged on her hair in warning, said, “I’m Captain America. I have to ask.”

Her posture went lax then, something he could recognize as a sub sliding under his command, and she answered, in soft tones, “No hard limits. I don’t have limits, sir.”

Steve wondered briefly if he should correct her for her pride, but she was bent easily under his hand, and damn if she wasn’t telling the perfect truth. She was the Black Widow; any limits she had were likely far beyond his ability to reach.

He sent her to shower and then to his bedroom, just like he’d once done for Lorraine. He told her to be naked by the time he got there, and made sure to give her permission to stand before she went.

After Natasha left, Steve took a deep breath, and a moment to wonder what the hell he was doing. Playing with the Black Widow? 

Still, she had offered, and that had to mean something, right? She had to know that he didn’t have much experience in this, and she’d offered anyway. Steve thought that he maybe should have mentioned his lack of experience before he’d sent her to his bedroom.

She was kneeling next to his bed when he got there, stripped bare and head bent, her hands resting lightly on her knees, the picture of a good sub. The sight of her like that made him flush all over, a tight knot curling in his chest. 

“Come here,” he said, sitting on the bed. He pointed to the ground at his feet. Natasha crawled to him, movements fluid and efficient. Steve was oddly grateful that she didn’t put an exaggerated sway in her hips, the sort of thing that was supposed to make Doms wild. He hadn’t even realized that he’d been dreading her trying to seduce him.

 _Too late to turn back now,_ he thought, _I’m already in bed with her —practically._

So Steve did what he had been taught to do, and took care of her. 

She was tough, hard to read, but she didn’t seem to be intentionally trying to mislead him. He thought things might be different these days, or maybe different with _her._

He wrapped both her wrists in his hand and gently pressed them over her head. She went perfectly still, not tense, exactly, but alert, not the way a sub was supposed to slide under, and he let her go immediately, only barely keeping his apologies silent. It wouldn’t do to let her know he wasn’t in control, quite.

She liked it, though, when he made her kneel facing the headboard, put her hands on the top rail and asked her not to let go. Maybe he should have ordered her, but that felt like assuming too much for their first time, and asking seemed to work, judging by the way she dipped her head and went, easy, willing.

He thought she might not like it when he came up behind her, so he asked about that, too. She shook her head, as if to clear it, and said, after a moment, “no. No. The mattress moves with you; I know where you are.” 

And then, “Sir.” like she’d forgotten, but she sounded soft enough that he thought he should let it slide. And then she said, “Please, sir.”

He went.

“Do you want me to hurt you?” Steve asked, feeling a little sick at the thought of it, but he’d do it if she asked. If she needed it.

Another time, Natasha would have raised her eyebrows and said, “Do you want me to hurt _you?_ ”

Now she looked up at him, eyes wide and unfocussed, like he was filling up her frame of vision, and said, “If it pleases you, sir,” just like a good sub should.

She bent when he threaded his hand into her hair, soft and yielding and so foreign. Steve said, “I don’t want to,” choosing his words carefully, “so tell me now if you need it.”

“No, sir,” she murmured. “Thank you for asking, sir.”

He let his shoulders slump a little in relief -- she wasn’t watching, so that was all right -- and slid his hands along the sleek, dense muscle of her thighs, lined himself up against her back, and gently pressed her body back against his with his hand on her chest.

It was easier, once he was there. There were a limited number of things he could do, when they were pressed together like that, and this part never changed.

“Don’t come yet,” he said, rubbing the tip of his index finger lightly against her clit, paying close attention to when her breath caught, to know where he should touch. “I want you to come on my cock,” because that would be easier than trying to pinpoint when it was alright to ask her to come for him.

When he moved away to put on the rubber, she tried to follow, pulled up short by her grip on the bed rail. He stroked a hand down her back to soothe her, and then did it again, inexplicably fascinated by the way the muscles in her shoulders stood out when she strained towards him. She made a quiet noise of frustration, almost a growl, and Steve scrambled back to her, back between her legs and started to push in slowly.

She was beautiful, slick and tight, and she fluttered around him every time he stroked her clit. She smelled like soap and sex, and she panted and gasped instead of begging, used the leverage of her hands on the bed rail to push back onto his cock. She was perfect, and she came on his cock, just like he’d told her to, clenching suddenly as he rode her through it, right up to his own release.

She was perfect, and he told her so, tapped her hands so she’d know to let go of the rail, eased her down onto the bed and smiled back when she looked up and gave him a lazy grin.

She was perfect. And yet, as Steve wrapped her up, curled around her for the night, he knew he had a problem, because as good as she was, there was still something missing.

***

In the morning, Natasha was still there. Steve was a little surprised and pleased to find her still wrapped in his arms, asleep, as the early morning sunlight slanted into his room.

She woke as soon as he moved, though, startled awake with a tiny jolt that she quickly covered with a leisurely stretch.

"Do you maybe want to do this again?" Natasha asked. "You took care of me. I appreciate that. I would like it."

Steve ran his hand gently through her hair, and said, "You were wonderful."

That gave her pause, and she tilted her head to one side, prompted him, "But?"

"I told a girl once, that I was waiting for the right partner," Steve said, thinking of Lorraine's disappointed moue, after he'd looked after her, watched her come back up with hardly a twinge of real feeling. "It's a privilege to take care of you, if you want me to."

"Ah." Natasha nodded.

Steve let her move away, taking the sheet with her. "Tasha," he said, almost pleading, hating himself for the sound of it. "Tell me you think our dynamic meshed."

He knew better than to insult her by asking her not to lie.

Natasha turned then, with a rueful smile, said, "Maybe not. I guess not." 

She returned his sheet and didn't smirk when he tried to look desperately somewhere other than her naked body. 

"It was better than anything I've had before, though," Natasha said, cool and calculating, which was how Steve knew she was telling the truth.

"Call me old-fashioned," said Steve, "But I'm still waiting for the right partner."

"Fair enough." Natasha collected her clothes, which were folded in a neat stack by the door. "Best of luck, Cap."

For the rest of the day, though, Steve felt like his skin didn't fit quite right. He went for a walk in Central Park, and tried the new pie at his favorite diner, but nothing helped.

Natasha was nowhere to be seen when he got back, and Steve was suddenly certain that he didn't take care of her, that he must have done something wrong.

He settled in that afternoon, with his sketchbook in his lap, trying to find some peace.

The thing was, Steve really liked Natasha. Not just a distant appreciation of her beauty, of the graceful way she moved and the elegant curves of her body, spare and deadly and stunning -- but a humiliating, unconscious following of her fingers when she racked her guns, a memory of the way she'd crouched in battle, all that impending violence gathered up in the moment before she struck.

He found himself sketching her hands, curved around guns, around knives, around a handful of arrows down at the range.

 _There was something missing,_ Steve told himself, over and over. _There was something not right. She's not the one._

He looked down at what he'd been drawing, her hands again, cuffed together at the wrist, palms facing in, fingers lax, easy, acquiescing. But the proportions were off, and the picture wasn't really of Natasha's slender, long-fingered hands.

The next sketch was better, he got her hand right, but somewhere between the turn of her wrist and the handle of the knife she was meant to be holding, her weapon turned into a signal whip, slim-coiled and dangerous-looking.

Steve stared at his own traitorous artwork. He slammed his sketchbook shut, and went to the gym.

It was just his luck that Natasha was already there, but she was training with Clint -- or possibly they were just playing, since Clint's arrows weren't going anywhere near her as she leapt between pieces of equipment, literally climbing the walls in some places.

The game was one they played often, a specialized form of catch; Natasha tried to catch the arrows, while Clint tried to get her to strike out.

Natasha caught about half the arrows, and put them at Clint's feet when he ran out. Natasha seemed fine. 

_She just needed a little space, that's all,_ Steve told himself. He needed space, too. _It's fine, It's fine._

Steve resolutely headed towards the punching bag.

After Clint declared their game a draw, Natasha found her way to Steve's corner. She looked speculative, thoughtful, when she sat down on a bench, and Steve was hyperaware of her watching him work.

It wasn't that he was jealous. Clint and Natasha had always been close. There was no reason that he should be jealous.

But Natasha remained directly his line of sight, silent as ever, but diffident, and he couldn't help asking. "You and Clint?" 

He'd seen the thin silver chain that Clint wore in lieu of a collar, and he knew too, that sometimes subs went with subs, but also that jewelry was sometimes just jewelry.

Natasha frowned, then shook her head. "That was over years ago. We were over, I mean. 

"I always," she said with a little grimace, "seem to fall in with switches."

Steve wasn't used to hearing that kind of language from a sub, but he was more surprised than offended. "Clint?"

Natasha shrugged. "Ask him yourself, if you want. He'll say the same thing." As if it was no big deal.

"He Dommed for you?" Steve said, "And now he's subbing for...?"

"Jimmy Woo," Natasha supplied, "good agent. But it's not complicated, Steve. How did you know you were a Dom?"

How did he know he was a Dom?

He'd always been a Dom, hadn't he? Went from the orphanage to the SSR to the military, and there was never any question. Sure, he was not so smooth when it came to talking to subs, but it wasn't like he had much experience.

He destroyed the bag. He reached for another, but Natasha put her hand on his. 

"Hey Cap," she said. "Spar with me."

"Now's not really a great time to let me take a swing at you," Steve told her.

Natasha gave him a look, a little amused, less serious than before, which was encouraging, and she said, "Swinging is one thing, catching me is entirely another. I can take it."

"All right," he said and followed Natasha over to the mat.

She was wearing next to nothing again -- tight black pants and a black sports bra -- and she'd shed her usual public mannerisms, trading weaponized beauty for something more bullish, brash.

"I think I want to try it," Steve blurted out.

Natasha looked askance at him, obviously reviewing their conversation in her head, and said, "You want to switch?"

Steve shrugged, embarrassed. "You asked how I knew. But I was _told_. I was told I was a Dom, and I never even considered anything else."

"You really want to just jump in the deep end, huh, Cap?"

"Please," Steve said, "Don't call me that when we're off duty."

Natasha's eyebrows went up. She asked, "Well, what are you talking to me about it for?"

"I thought," said Steve. "With you, I mean." He felt like his face was on fire, and he said, "If you wanted to."

"Just because I was with Clint, doesn't mean I'm a switch," Natasha told him. "Clint is a good Dom. Can be."

"I didn't think it because of Clint," Steve protested, "I mean. Oh, hell. I'm saying this wrong.

"It's just that." Steve hesitated. "It was good with you, last time. And you asked if I wanted it to be a regular play date." He held out his hands. "I trusted you to know your mind when you knelt for me. I'd trust you to know how to handle the other side, too," he admitted, blushing as he thought about the whip he'd drawn.

Natasha gave him a long, steady look, calculating, and Steve was sure he'd said something wrong. But she said, "I'll think about it, Steve," and put her guard up. "Let's finish up here first."

He pulled his punches, but he almost needn’t have bothered, since he didn’t manage to hit her even once. She was blindingly fast, and the only consolation was that she never quite managed to hit him, either. After several minutes of this ineffectual dance, she closed suddenly, blocking his swinging fists, she vaulted up, as if to try her signature chokehold, but when he leaned back to avoid it, she changed tactics in midair, used his bent knee for leverage, driving her whole body upward again, using her forward momentum to topple him, her hand tucked tight under his chin.

Steve felt a confused flurry of falling, hitting the mat with Natasha’s knee resting lightly in the hollow of his throat, her hands braced above his head. The implication was clear — she could have crushed his neck.

It took a moment for him to understand what was happening — it felt like he couldn’t breathe — like he’d forgotten how. All he could see was Natasha’s slick skin, the smooth flex of her arms absorbing the impact of her fall, her body looming over him, demanding his full attention. The spot where her knee rested against his skin was over-warm.

“Are you alright, Steve?” she asked, getting to her feet.

She held out her hand to help him up, and he took it, sensitive to the clench of her hand in his.

“I- I’m fine,” he stuttered out. He got to his feet, shakily. "I just need a moment." Steve told her. "I'll be fine."

He couldn't look at her.

"Let's call it quits," Natasha said. Steve couldn't tell if she sounded concerned or disappointed.

_Why couldn't he look at her?_

He ducked around her and fled back to his rooms. 

***

"Agent Romanov is requesting entry to your quarters, Captain," said JARVIS.

"Tell her I'm fine," Steve said.

There was a slight pause, and JARVIS said, "She would like to speak with you directly."

Steve thought about saying no, but Natasha was Natasha and she could easily find her way through to his rooms if she was truly determined to drag this out. He should probably be grateful that she was letting him get away with locking her out.

"What the hell, put her through."

A holographic image of Natasha appeared near the door of the room. 

"Steve," the holograph said, "Will you go down to Medical?"

"I'm fine, Tasha. Didn't hit my head or anything. I just need some space."

He couldn't make out the expression on the monochrome holograph, but he thought he saw a curving frown.

"JARVIS can track my vital signs, right?" Steve said, as it occured to him that it might make her liklier to leave him alone.

"I am able to monitor you remotely, yes," JARVIS said.

For some reason, this didn't make Natasha's maybe-frown go away, but she nodded, said, "Call me if you need anything."

He was starting to feel achy, cold. If it hadn't been for the Serum, he might have thought he was coming down with something.

There was the soft click of the projector deactivating, and Steve rolled back to stare up at the ceiling, and he sighed. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

***

Steve couldn't sleep.

He'd meant to, but he closed his eyes and felt like he was falling. He closed his eyes and felt cold, a chill in his bones, no matter how he burrowed into the luxurious down comforter, like the ice was inside of him.

He slept for an hour and dreamed of falling, out of the sky, into the snow, onto the cold crush of ice, down to the depths of the sea. He dreamed of ice, and he woke shivering and he couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe.

He needed to get out of bed just so he knew he wasn't going to wake up somewhen completely new.

Pepper found him in the kitchen at some ridiculous hour of the morning. She'd just come home from whatever business meeting she'd had out in Malibu, and she was still dressed in a sharp white suit, briefcase in one hand and smartphone in the other.

She handed off her briefcase to one of the Tower's many robots saying quietly, "JARVIS, make sure this gets to my office, it's all the M&A paperwork for WireStar. Put it on the top of the pile, and have the domestic telecom sector analysis open first thing tomorrow, I'll need to assess before the board makes a firm offer."

Frankly, it was just as much incomprehensible gibberish to Steve as Tony's ramblings were, except Pepper eventually stopped dictating, and glanced up from her phone.

She gave Steve a tired smile, and moved toward the refrigerator.

"Long night?” Pepper said, rummaging around and coming up with a container of leftover chicken salad and a bottle of water.

"Couldn't sleep," Steve replied. He swirled his cocoa around. He'd thought it might warm him up, help him relax, but after the first few sips, he gave up.

Pepper added some yogurt to her armful of food, hummed thoughtfully, and snagged a second bottle of water. Steve politely pretended that he didn't know she was going to take that meal down to Tony and make sure he had something to eat before she fucked him over his lab bench.

Pepper turned then, and got a good look at Steve. Whatever she saw there made her scramble to set everything on the table. Salad, yogurt, water, neat in a row, without a second thought.

"What happened, Steve?" she asked, real concern in her voice. "Are you okay? Who did this to you?"

Of course there was nothing that Steve could say to that. "No one did anything to me."

Pepper frowned. "Did you eat anything today?"

"Not really hungry," Steve said, shrugging. "I'd think maybe I caught something, but with the Serum..."

"Body aches?" Pepper asked, with a soft, sympathetic tone.

Steve nodded.

And then she said, "You're dropping, hon." 

It was so nonsensical that it actually took a moment for Steve to understand what she said.

"That doesn't make any sense," Steve said, sharper than he should be to the head of the largest tech company in the nation, "I'm not a sub." 

_How did you know?_ Natasha's question rang in his ears.

Pepper gave him a look, and said mildly, "I didn't say you were. Believe me, you don't have to be a sub to experience drop." Her wry smile suggested that she knew from personal experience.

She fingered the key hanging from the delicate bracelet around her wrist, thoughtful, and flicked through something on her smartphone. A team roster, it looked like. "Okay," she said, scooping up her things, "I've got to go drag Tony up from the workshop. Someone will come by to keep you company."

A minute later, Natasha showed up. Of course it was Natasha. Somewhere up there, someone was having a good laugh at Steve's expense.

She paused in the doorway, as if uncertain of her welcome, but she seemed to shake it off when she saw Steve. Her face changed from neutral to hard and certain.

 _I'm going to kill Pepper Potts_ , thought Steve. Or he would have, if he weren't so pathetically grateful.

Natasha took his mug of cocoa from him and reheated it in the microwave. Then she made herself a cup of tea and produced a pack of cards from thin air and started dealing out hands for rummy.

Half an hour later, they'd adjourned to the living room and Natasha was trying to teach him to play a complicated variation of Go Fish that he sort of suspected was invented by bored SHIELD agents while awaiting action.

He had a good head for rules, though, and he caught on pretty quick, even though some of the rules were as outrageous as 'On the third Thursday of every month, threes and fives are interchangeable.'

It was a lot to hold in his head, and it managed to calm him, a little. He thought about playing cards in the shelters under London town, while the bombs fell above them, shaking the city to her foundations. There was less swearing and alcohol between Natasha and him, but still it brought back memories.

In the end, Natasha sat on the couch with him and they took turns guessing whether the next card was red or black. This was actually tougher than it sounded, since Natasha either had the best sleight of hand Steve had ever seen, or she was psychic — either way, she was seldom wrong. She was curled in against his side, and she was so warm. it seemed to fill up the air around her, and Steve wasn't cold any more, turned toward her light.

He breathed in the scent of her hair, the leather-steel-gunpowder smell of her skin, under the soft perfume of her soap and shampoo, the intrinsic strength and violence that were a part of her.

Steve felt her head pressed against the curve of his shoulder, her hair splayed across his shirt. He closed his eyes and let her warmth wash over him.

***

Steve woke up just as early dawn light started to come in through the picture windows and Natasha was still there.

She opened her eyes less than a minute after he did — Steve guessed that she'd heard his breathing change, and thought that he probably should feel a little intimidated by the fact that such a subtle change could register in her sleep.

Natasha didn't move though, just opened her eyes and looked up at him, sharp and clear.

After a while, she said, “I'm sorry about last night. I should have seen that one coming.”

“That Pepper Potts would strong-arm you into playing cards with me?” Steve said wryly. “Don't worry about it. It was nice.”

“I meant the drop,” Natasha said. She was perfectly matter-of-fact, but Steve still felt his color rising.

“I'm not a sub,” Steve said. He didn’t want to think about what that would mean. “And even if you were playing Dom, you don't need permission to finish a scene. That's not how it works.”

Steve had obviously hit a nerve. Natasha glared at him and said flatly, “That’s how it works with me.”

She reclaimed her pack of cards and rolled to her feet. 

“Steve,” she said, looking back at him and she was hesitating on the edge of something, but before she could get it out, the call to Assemble blared through the room. Natasha shook her head abruptly. “It will keep,” she said, and stalked off in the direction of the ready room, inserting her comm and already demanding a sitrep from JARVIS.

By the time they came back from battling what Clint christened 'zombie robots' — for their ability to reattach any part of themselves not blown to smithereens — everyone was exhausted.

The battle itself had gone well. Steve had ordered Natasha off the field and into the abandoned building where Iron Man had pinpointed the central command station. Steve had been waiting for her rebellion, after what was happening between them, but she went without argument, just a quick affirmative followed by action, switching her comm off to ensure that no stray signal could give away her position. Steve spared a moment for gratitude and relief, didn’t dwell on the subject, after that.

The team adjourned for post-battle cleanup, but reconvened for the briefing, and then food, which had become sort of a tradition after the first battle with the Chitauri. 

Everyone went their separate ways afterwards. Jimmy Woo showed up just as they were finishing, to take Clint home. He had a salvaged grappling arrowhead in hand, the line already unspooled, and he carefully shut the claw around the chain at Clint’s neck before putting the remaining line across his own shoulders, as you would for a very well-trained pet. Clint touched the arrowhead and grinned up at Jimmy, a joyful expression that was all too rare. Steve averted his eyes, feeling uncomfortably like he’d seen something he wasn’t meant to.

Bruce slipped away to sleep off the Hulk, and Thor left to do... well, whatever it was a Norse God did when he wasn't fighting, drinking, or eating. 

Pepper came in, eventually, and stood tolerantly over Tony while he quizzed Natasha about the performance of the latest flexible body-armor he’d come up with. When Tony started to ask JARVIS for the latest models, though, Pepper reached over without a word and clipped his wrists together.

Tony’s attitude didn’t change a bit, but he did say, “Scratch that, flash save, JARVIS. Catch you on the flipside, Cap, Tasha,” while following Pepper out of the room.

Steve watched her measured, toppy strut, and realized he was holding his breath like _prey_ , and took a deep breath in.

Then it was just Steve and Natasha at the table. Natasha got up and brought back two mugs of steaming tea, and she set one down in front of Steve. 

It occurred to Steve that the last thing she'd heard over the comms before going dark, was that he was being backed into a freezer in an improbably high-end restaurant.

When she finished her tea, Natasha got up, stretched and said, “I'm going to bed. You wanna come?” His confusion must have shown on his face, because she smiled wryly and added, “To sleep, I promise.”

Steve thought about his empty bed and his memories, and he thought about falling asleep on the couch with her, and he said, “Sure.”

***

This time when he woke up, Natasha was watching him, thoughtful, still, and she said, “I've been thinking about it. Steve.” 

She reached out slowly, telegraphing her movement, and wrapped her hand around his wrist. Her fingers didn’t quite reach, leaving a gap over the tendon, but her hold was firm, and Steve had no doubt that she could grip until he bruised.

It was an old-fashioned gesture, the polite way to ask someone to sub for you. It was the kind of thing that sweethearts did, and it sent a secret thrill down Steve's spine.

“I would like to Dom for you,” Natasha said, instead of asking, _Will you sub for me?_

“Yes,” said Steve, more breathless than he’d have liked, “Please.” He watched her eyes darken, and gave in to the impulse to cast his eyes down.

“But I want to do it right,” she said, smoothing his hair back with her free hand, gently tilting his face back up. “I want to negotiate with you over dinner. I want you to understand why I choose to do what I will do.” There was something cautious about her expression — no, _careful_ , as if he was someone she wanted to protect — Steve liked it.

“So, tonight,” Natasha decided. “Take the day, think about it. If it’s okay, I’ll come by tonight and we can negotiate.”

“Yeah,” he said, “Okay.”

Natasha smiled at him. “I'll see you at six.”

***

"I can't be a sub," Steve said to Tony. "I'm Captain America."

Steve was down in the workshop on the theory that, if there was one thing Tony Stark knew, it was how to be a sub on a team of superheroes.

Tony frowned, and he said, "Think about this logically, Cap. If you are a sub? You're _already_ Captain America, and you've had the gig for years. That statement is patently false."

"You know what I mean," Steve said.

"What? Is it a command thing?" Tony asked, running his mouth as usual. "Okay. If, for whatever reason, you couldn't be out in the field with the rest of the Avengers, if you couldn't be the one giving us orders during battle," he held up a hand to stop Steve’s protest, "Just bear with me a minute. If you couldn't be there, who would you appoint as field command in your place?"

"Is this a test?" Steve asked, warily.

"This is lab; everything is a test," Tony replied, "Sometimes the results are more interesting than others. Answer the question."

It was a no-brainer. Iron Man would do as a second choice, but he operated in brilliant strokes — give him an objective and he was good to go — and delegation would never come easily to him. Hawkeye tended to chatter nonstop, only occasionally sharing useful information, unless he was utterly, perfectly sniper-silent, waiting for a target. Thor was actually quite a good tactician, but he had no concept of collateral damage, and was too ready, in Steve's opnion, to let some of the others' (suicidal) harebrained schemes go unchallenged. And the Hulk? the less said about that hypothetical disaster, the better.

"I didn't mean to imply-" He said, but Tony cut him off.

"Who would it be?" he prompted.

"You’d be good, but Natasha would be better," Steve admitted.

She was a good tactician, capable of tracking everyone's position during the heat of battle and applying each person's strengths to where they were needed most. She was neither reckless nor overly cautious, and consistently aware of the movement of outside groups, whether they were backup or civilians. And she issued orders like she had been born to do it.

"There you go," he said, "You _can_ have a sub as the leader of the Avengers. No problem." Tony nodded, apparently satisfied, and went back to soldering his circuits and poking at things with the oscilloscope, buried up to his elbows in wires and metal. "Unless this is some like, internalized shame you learned when you were a kid. I'll tell you right now, I am the wrong person to be handing out advice on that front."

It wasn't so much that Steve was ashamed, it was just that... even he couldn't see how a sub could possibly carry that kind of responsibility, for the protection and the conscience of a nation. He told Tony so.

"Listen up, Americana. Anyone who ever told you that subs are made to be broken was either lying or a fucking idiot," Tony said, flat out, finally turning away from what he was working on. "Tops break. Subs just bend a little more and endure."

"It isn't that simple," Steve sighed, thinking of reporters and interviews and the tide of public opinion.

"It was for me," Tony said. "I made my Dom CEO first chance I got. Everyone had a fucking opnion — in some cases literally, come to think of it — but look at us now. I would never have been featured on the cover of Forbes as a leader in corporate accountability. And Pep might be brilliant, but she sure as hell couldn't have defused that jury-rigged dirty bomb last month. So it worked out for everyone. I was right."

"Thanks," said Steve, wryly. "That's just what I need to be able to tell Fury and the media if this gets out. 'Tony Stark was right'."

Tony laughed a little. "Whatever floats your boat, Cap." He turned back to what he was working on, did a couple more welds and took a step back. "But this," said Tony, "Is me."

"Exactly," said Steve. Tony had a certain... style, and it sure wasn't anything like Steve's way of doing things. "That's what I mean."

"Not what I meant," Tony said, shaking his head, once. He had Iron Man's shiny red gauntlet in his hand, testing the final articulation. "I made this — this is me. The suit isn't just mine; think of it more organically, Capsicle."

He put the gauntlet on. "This is my hand." The rest of the arm came flying to meet him, fitting together smoothly and perfectly. "This is my arm. This is my body." And then Iron Man and said, "And this is me.

"I made this," said Tony, tapping the RT which made a soft, metallic sound. "Not the other way around.

"What is it that you're always saying — you're just a kid from Brooklyn, right?"

 _All that came from you,_ Tony meant, _Not the other way around._

Steve thought about Natasha taking care of him, of her pressing her back to him, touching her weapons and saying, _I’ve got this, Cap,_ perfectly certain.

Steve thought about Natasha taking care of him, holding his face in her hands and telling him that he'd been good. Telling him that he was all right, in that level, brutally honest tone she had, clear and definite. 

He let himself really think about subbing for her, about her as his Dom, sheltering him, and he _wanted_ it so much that he ached with it.

 _Anyone who ever told you that subs are made to be broken was lying, or an idiot._ It wasn’t poetry, but it would have to do.

***

That night, Natasha showed up at Steve’s door with food and they negotiated over dinner. 

She asked, "What do you want?"

The problem was, Steve had no idea how to answer that question. He opened his mouth, and shut it again, blushing as he realized he couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"Wait, no. Hold on. I'm sorry, that was a stupid question," Natasha said quickly, holding up her hand. “Let’s try this: You can ask for anything, at any time — I'll decide if I give it to you.

"For the first time, at least, I want to keep it simple," Natasha said, "You may come when you need to. No penetration. No bloodplay. We can renegotiate on all that later."

Steve felt a twinge of relief when she said 'no penetration', but he shoved it down, irritated by his own apprehension.

"I'll probably. uh. come more than once." Steve admitted. It was something to do with the Serum, but it'd never really mattered until now, with Natasha's natural assumption that a Dom must give her sub permission to orgasm.

On the other hand, Natasha wet her lips at the thought, seemed pleased. Steve wondered if she'd still find it exciting when she realized what a mess it made, but he figured that that was for her to decide.

"I won't choke you," she said. "Not with my hands or my thighs, not with anything -- not tonight, and not ever."

Steve remembered her bowed head under his hand, how she'd said, _I'm the Black Widow. I don't have limits,_ but he said only, "Probably for the best." He had thought about it, though, weighing the old memories of asthma attacks and the icy rush of water into his lungs against the way he'd looked up at her in the gym, with her knee at his throat, and he'd been certain that she could destroy him, if he'd asked her to. "It's okay if you touch my neck. I just need to be able to breathe."

Natasha nodded in approval at that bit of clarification.

"Do you want me to hurt you?" Natasha asked. She was careful, neutral.

Steve thought of the whip he'd drawn and he blushed, stuttered. "I don't know. I --Yes. I want to try it."

Natasha didn't gloat. She looked at him, let him see her looking, and he watched her weigh his healing factor and his pain threshold, her transparency was as good as a promise. "Spanking," she said, after a while. "I'll use my hand."

"I've got a pretty high pain tolerance," Steve said, wryly.

Natasha raised her eyebrows, "This isn't work, Steve. You might not enjoy it. And even if you do, you might not enjoy it if it _really_ hurts. It's supposed to be good, not tolerable. Remember that."

Then she pushed right into safewords. "Red, yellow, and green are pretty standard, if that's all right." And then she said, "Have you ever used a safeword?"

Steve stared at her. "No," he said. "I can't say I ever have."

"Okay," Natasha tilted her head back a little, thinking. "Then you decide. What will we use?"

"Those are fine," Steve said.

"What are?" Natasha countered, and it dawned on him that she wanted him to say it. It seemed odd, a little petty, but he humored her.

"Red, yellow, and green," Steve said, and sure enough, Natasha had been right. For all he'd had the words drilled into his head in Dom classes, he stuttered over them. They felt completely different in his mouth in anticipation of him being the one to say them.

"Alright," she said in agreement, level and rock-solid. "Good."

Steve felt a soft welling up of gratitude at that, a slow wave building up to roll him under.

They finished up dinner, and Natasha said, "Let's take a little while to let it settle and clean up here." 

She helped with the dishes -- washed while he dried and put them away, and she talked about Sao Paulo and San Isidro, the last places she went on missions where she had a moment of free time to look at the city instead of at intel and data points. She talked about the urban art and the jungle climate. 

She asked if there was anywhere that Steve had ever wanted to travel to, and smiled ruefully when he said, "I imagine the Pacific's a nice place to see, now that the war's over."

It was easy, and Steve was more relaxed by the time she put the last dish on the rack and shut off the water.

"Come on," Natasha said, leading the way. "We'll start in the living room."

Steve trailed after her, uncertain again, but she didn't seem bothered by his hesitation. She took a seat on the couch, and said, "What's your word, Steve?" and waited until he said, "Red."

"Good. Use it if you need to." Then she gestured to the floor between her feet. "Come here, baby." 

Steve went reluctantly, forced himself to kneel facing her, self-conscious of how ridiculous he must look, huge and clumsy. 

Natasha asked, "Color?" and Steve answered honestly, "Yellow."

He felt nervous and not quite right. He felt guilty, ashamed, hot under the collar, and not in a good way. Natasha backed off, and said, "Okay, it's okay, you're doing fine. You can sit."

Steve shifted to sit crosslegged on the floor, and Natasha leaned in again to run her hands over his shoulders and neck, firm and sure. "It's okay," she said. "You're okay. 

"Close your eyes." Steve did.

Natasha told him, "Now take a deep breath, and remember, I've got you."

She moved, knelt up behind him, and pressed the crown of his head back against her shoulder, the top of her chest, so he could feel her inhale and exhale, slow and even. 

"Breathe with me."

It was a familiar exercise, one he remembered from dingy back alleys and rundown tenements, focused on his breath, in, out, in, out.

Natasha's hand came to rest lightly on his throat, gently tilted his chin up and covered his exposed neck. "Color?" breathed Natasha, above him.

"Green," Steve said this time. This was good. This was easy.

Natasha let him take a dozen more good deep breaths with her, in and out, before she let him go.

Then she was crouched in front of him, saying, "Open your eyes, Steve." And when he did, she was there, filling up his vision again. And she said, "Good. Good boy. Now I want you to strip."

Steve's breath caught, but he did as he was told, carefully folding his clothes and setting them in a neat pile on the floor. He hesitated when he got to his underwear.

"Off," Natasha reminded him, gentle, implacable.

He skimmed them off in a rush and set them on the top of his pile of clothes. He couldn't look at her again, just remained standing there, eyes fixed on the floor, blushing from the roots of his hair all the way down his chest. He didn't know what he was supposed to do with his hands.

Natasha stepped in close, said, "I'm going to touch you," and followed that by putting her hands on his arms, just at the bend of his elbow. They talked this over in negotiation, and they'd already played together once, but Steve didn't remember the touch of her skin being so electric.

"Breathe," Natasha reminded him. She ran her hands from shoulder to wrist, lightly at first, but by the third pass, her movements were bolder, proprietary instead of testing. 

"Will you sub for me?" Natasha asked, and Steve nodded mutely, unable to find his voice.

Natasha said, "Kneel," and put her hand on the back of his neck, just a gentle pressure, but he dropped without a second thought, went down so fast that his knees banged on her wood floor. 

"Easy," Natasha murmured, "You're doing well, darling."

She carded her hand through his hair, a firm touch, but reassuring. "Let me take care of you," Natasha said. She stood close and guided him to press his head against her hip, and they stayed like that for a while. She'd worn a pair of jeans, old and soft. No belt, Steve noticed, and he wondered if that little detail had been for his benefit, to put him at ease. He quashed a little twinge of irritation at that. As if he couldn't take it--

Natasha's hand tightened in his hair, not too hard, just enough to get his attention, and she said, "Hey. You're thinking too much, Steve. Let it go."

She didn't release him, though, and he tugged experimentally against her grip, more on reflex than anything. She pulled this time, a bright, sharp pain, and that-- that was it. He bowed his head against her hip and felt everything fade out, except her warmth and her hand in his hair.

She was murmuring soft words of praise, an litany of reassurance, but he felt her tone more than he really registered anything she was saying.

She said, "Good boy," and this time he didn't blush, just tilted his face into her hand when she caressed him, seeking her touch.

She knelt down in front of him, got his face cupped in her palms, and said, "Okay. Let's take this to the bedroom, huh, sweetheart?"

Natasha held out her hand to help him up, braced herself and took Steve's weight as if it were -- not nothing, since she weighed just over half of what he did, it wasn't _nothing_ \-- but she braced herself and moved with him, and even though he hauled his whole weight on her hand, she simply angled against it, and held on. She stood fast, didn't falter, didn't stumble, didn't even grunt in exertion. She just took his hand in hers and let her body take his weight, and he understood then, that she could carry him.

He was naked, and she was still clothed, pretty much exactly the opposite of every other time he'd played with someone, but it felt right.

"It's okay," she said. "You can watch me."

She knelt him at the door and then stripped herself, efficient as a soldier, and as careless of her own nudity. She got on the bed, sat with her back against the headboard, and said, "Come here."

Steve had a good head for rules, and he knew this one by heart -- he hadn't been given permission to stand, so he crawled the few feet to the bed. 

He watched her eyes darken in pleasure when he crawled to her and climbed up onto the bed. She arranged him so he was lying facedown across her lap, apparently unbothered by his erection poking at her thigh.

"I'm going to spank you," Natasha said, running her hand lightly over the curve of his butt. "If you don't like it, safeword. I'll take care of you. This is not a punishment, okay, baby?"

"Okay," Steve said. He barely recognized his own voice.

Natasha hit him without preamble, but it wasn't nearly as hard as Steve was expecting, and when she did it again, a second time, he started to protest. Natasha must have been expecting that, because her hand was suddenly on the back of his neck, not a weight, but a reminder, and she said firmly, "If you're not going to safeword, stay down, Steve.

"This is just to warm you up," she said, and the hand she had on his neck turned into a caress down the length of his spine. She hit him several more times, until he was literally warm, before she paused and asked, "More?"

"Yes please, Natasha," Steve said. This was nothing. He'd told her he had a high pain threshold, but she didn't seem to--

Then she hit him for real, and the force of it jarred him in her lap, and pain came with it, lighting up his nerves. "Oh," he breathed, a soft, pained sound, almost covered up by the smack of her hand as she hit him again. And again.

One more, and Natasha paused, ran the flat of her hand over the hot skin, and asked, "Color?"

"Green," Steve said immediately, arching up against her palm. "Please, Natasha."

Natasha laughed, the sound soft and affectionate, strange from her voice, and she said, "Please -- who?"

Steve took a deep breath, and said, in more measured tones, "Please. Sir." The blissful heat of the spanking was fading too fast.

"Good." Natasha hit him again, and this time she didn't stop after four. She spread her blows across his butt and upper thighs, working at a determinedly steady pace, even when he couldn't help squirming in her lap, trying to get more. She pressed a little harder on the back of his neck when he began to forget himself, to remind him to be still.

He was faintly aware of her breathing speeding up, aware of the sweat-slick slide of her bare thighs under his abdomen, but all he really knew was that she was hurting him, and it was good.

She'd told him he could come whenever he needed to, but she'd also said it was something they could work on, and he wanted to be good for her. He tried to wait, but she hitched him up a little higher, and nudged his legs a little farther apart, and on the next blow, he felt the sting of her hand landing on his most tender flesh, and he broke.

"That's it, that's it," Natasha said. "Oh you're so good. You take it so well." She had her hands on him, gently easing him off her lap and onto his side. She cleaned them both up, just a cursory swipe with a damp cloth, and then she lay down facing Steve.

"How are you feeling?" she asked. Maybe she asked it twice. It was hard to tell. She seemed pleased, though, she kept touching him lightly, her hands tracing the lines of his body, his muscles, the invisible lines where his costume would lie.

"Thank you, sir," Steve murmured, feeling a goofy smile on his face.

It was okay though, because Natasha smiled right back at him. "We're not through yet," she said. "I want you to use your mouth on me."

She guided him down between her spread legs, and thank God, he knew what to do, even if he'd never had much practice. Natasha put her leg over his shoulder, and used her hands in his hair to show him what she liked. "Right here," she said. 

Steve noticed a line of bruising on the inside of her thigh, and it occurred to him that she had killed people with nothing more than the strength of them. He arched helplessly against the bed at the thought, whimpering against her, making her pull at his hair.

"Touch yourself," she said, "I want you to come again." So he obeyed, manuvered one hand underneath himself and thrust into it, aware of the way he looked, legs sprawled for leverage, humping against the bed into his own hand, wanton and desperate for her. Natasha hummed in appreciation, and it was worth every blush.

He didn't push inside her, remembering her words, _no penetration_ , she said, and she didn't tell him to. 

She came with her hands fisted tight in his hair, and he lapped at her even as she ground against his face, gritted out, "One more, baby, that's it. Don't stop," and came a second time in a tidal flow of wet and heat that trickled down his chin.

She said, "Turn over, I want to see your face when you come." So he did, and he focussed on the feeling of his hand, until Natasha reached out and pinched him, hard, on the skin near his nipple. He arched into his hand in surprise, and came without being quite prepared for it.

After she cleaned them up, she carefully rolled him over so that she was pressed up against his front.

He was barely sore any more, could only just feel the fading warmth where she'd hit him, turning into something more like comfort than pain.

He shifted a little. It was nice, kind of, but he'd liked that he could feel it, that it was there at the top of his awareness, without a mission in the way, how much she'd wanted him, that he could exist only for her, if only for a short time.

"I'll use the strap next time," Natasha told him, tucking his hand around her body, reading his mind.

"Maybe a whip," Steve murmured, too far gone to be embarrassed by his forwardness. She smelled good, warm, and she fit neatly against him the way the shield fit his hand.

"Okay," she said, level and low, "Anything you ask for, baby." She tucked her hand under her pillow, and he knew she was touching the hilt of a knife, the butt of a gun, and he knew she would take care of him.

It felt like coming home, like he finally had someplace to belong.


	2. deleted scene from chapter 1

“I let him drop,” Natasha said, viciously perforating her paper target at one hundred yards. She was at the range with Clint, blowing her way through pointless paper targets in an effort to sort out her head before she met Steve for dinner.

“I knew exactly what was happening, and I let him drop because he wouldn't give me permission to enter his quarters.”

“That's not why you're upset,” Clint observed. He knew damn well why she was upset.

“Fucking right, that's not why,” Natasha snapped. “The problem is, I'd do it again. I know I would. I still think I did the right thing.”

“You took care of him after though,” Clint pointed out, “That makes a difference. After it was clear that his way wasn't working.”

“It took Pepper Potts all but ordering me out of bed,” Natasha told him. But Clint was right. She'd backed off when Steve pushed, but she'd stepped in when she got the chance.

 _Be reasonable_ , she told herself. _You hadn't even done any negotiation. He didn't have a word. You had to respect his decision, even if it was the wrong one._

She emptied her mag and ejected it with an irritated sigh. Clint knew better than to initiate contact when she was wound up like this, knew she'd clock him if he tried it, but he extended the practice bow he was using, and gave her a wry look.

Natasha took it, and the proffered quiver. She was nowhere near as good as he was, but she'd learned, back when they were together, because a new skillset was always welcome. And right now, the physical exertion would be a welcome distraction.

The heavy draw forced her to focus on keeping her aim steady. Half a dozen shots in, and her shoulders started to ache. Clint leaned against the lane divider and watched her as if he was checking her form.

“Are you having a sexuality crisis?” Clint asked, with mild interest. Easy for him to say. He'd known he was a switch since he ran away from that orphanage rather than have the queer beaten out of him.

“No,” Natasha said, immediately.

“Because I think _you're_ dropping, now. You just don't want to admit it.”

Natasha loosed the arrow she had, and said, "It's not about my sexuality, Clint."

That was true, mostly. She knew enough of herself to know that 'sub' was more about work than anything. So it turned out that her inability to achieve subspace was a glitch, not a feature of her programming — well, she’d never thought of her submission as anything but a tool in the first place. She wasn't lying when she'd told Steve that he was the best she'd ever had. Then again, she'd never had the chance to Dom.

Clint watched her miss the bullseye by a fraction of an inch. She had a tendency to forget that the flight path of the arrow wasn't quite the same as a bullet. 

“It's one more thing they took from you,” Clint said.

Natasha huffed, and changed to shooting on the other side of her body. People didn't give Clint enough credit, sometimes. They didn't realize that Hawkeye wasn't just a description of his aim. He saw everything. 

“Not about my sexuality,” Natasha said again, instead of agreeing with him.

Clint sighed. “It will be for Steve, though,” he said. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” Natasha said tightly. “I know.”

“Sooo,” said Clint, after a while. “Are you sure you're not dropping? Because I give really great advice when it comes to getting over unexpected top drop.”

Natasha landed a shot dead-center and smiled a little. “More adrenaline crash than anything,” she admitted.

“From yesterday?” Clint said, looking askance at her.

“No,” Natasha said.

After a minute Clint nodded. “Oh,” he said. 

He got it. It was the identity problem, the fact that she was still discovering things that had been taken from her, something that she'd never missed, something that she had never guessed. There was no one to fight, nothing to destroy, but it didn't stop the feeling that there should be something she could do.

She said, “I still think it's rude to ask him to kneel without getting permission first. Ah, never mind.”

She sighted down at the target, aiming to disable instead of kill.

“He's going to have to practically top himself,” Natasha muttered.

“He's probably already used to that,” Clint pointed out, wryly. “Anyway, he's Steve Rogers. He'll ask you for what he needs. All you need to do is give him a safe space to get that.”

“I let him drop,” Natasha sighed, “And he still wants to sub for me.” She meant, _I’m not prepared for this._

“Tash, you respected his space.” Clint shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable. "Believe me, to some subs? that's the most important part."

She hit the target return, thought about it while the whirring machinery brought the arrow-riddled target in. “Thanks,” she said, not really looking at Clint, yanking out the arrows, and laying them on the table.

Clint brushed it off. “You learn fast,” he said, grinning, “You won't fuck it up again. I have faith.”

“You're an idiot,” Natasha said, but she didn't bother to hide her smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to keep this part, but it completely fucked up the flow of the fic. So consider it a deleted scene?


	3. Pepper and Tony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone knows that Pepper and Tony are the 'kinky' couple behind closed doors, and sometimes have non-dynamic sex... If Tony's been verrrrry good.

The first time they slept together was a mistake, as it often goes, and they don't talk about it. Pepper fucked up. Tony was fucked up. It wasn't disastrous, but it was a mistake.

Everyone wanted to know why Pepper didn't just give Tony Stark the good hard caning he needed to keep him in line. (The way Obie used to, sometimes, if Tony really fucked up).

Pepper fucked him because she didn't know what else to do -- too hard, too much, nothing but desperation -- and Tony took it as his due, as his penance. After Obie, he had a pretty good idea of all the things he had to pay for.

She whipped him, even though she didn’t like whipping, wished she could have beat him with her hand, pinched him until he bruised, but the way he flinched when she touched him, leaned into the drag of the tail of the signal whip and begged for it, needed it, made her do it anyway.

She fucked him with nothing but his own spit, didn’t even bother with tying him up. She shoved him facedown on the bed, knowing it was the only kindness he would accept, that she wouldn’t be able to see him crying. She ordered him to keep his hands against the headboard and finally, finally, dug her fingers into the bright whipmarks, hard and careless, as if she didn’t care that it made him gasp and arch and come, sobbing, untouched.

“You sorry slut. I’m going to use you up,” she growled out, barely managing to keep back the rest of it. (I want everything you’ve got, boy. I’ll take it all.)

She took good care of him, and brought him back up, after, and it was fine, it was fine. But they both knew it was a mistake. Pepper avoided the subject, and Tony let her, never even teased her for the way she'd put her hands in his hair and murmured something that wasn't even true, couldn't possibly-- it was better forgotten.

(I want it all, baby. Every stupid, self-obsessed inch of you. You are a lying, narcissistic bastard and I love every part you.)

***

Years later, they get their shit together, and Pepper says, “I don't want it to be like last time. I don't want to be just another way that you're doing time. I refuse to be your penance.”

Tony says, "Please, Pepper. Please, Miz Potts. I want to be good for you."

Pepper says, "I want to watch you take my mark, but I will not allow you to treat me like your keeper."

"Non-dynamic," Tony suggests, "Let me show you how much I want it. You know. I'll take your mark, and I'll give you the time of your life. Let me prove it to you." He's certain of his decision, and he's doing that thing again, where he's on his knees, but he's certainly not kneeling.

Pepper goes red, and he's not sure if that's from rage or embarrassment at the idea of something so unabashedly kinky. But she offers him a hand up, and says, "Okay, Tony. Okay. We can try that."

***

It's really good. Pepper's strong hands leave behind neat rows of bruises on Tony's skin, shoulder and wrist and hip. Tony touches her like an engineer, discovering ways to take her apart and put her back together better, stronger. It's a little strange to have her partner touch her without specific permission, but Tony was telling the truth when he said he would show her how much he wanted it, when he said he would give her the time of her life.

She urges him into her, notes the way his manner slips a little, glancing up at her for her nod of approval before he pushes in, but she likes that, a little show of respect, even if her leg curled around the back of his thigh is plenty of encouragement already.

She can't help it, she bites the curve of his shoulder, sinks her teeth in just short of drawing blood. She remembers how he'd come when she dug her fingers into the crisscrossing red welts on his back, and knows that this will be no different. She's right. He moans and twists his hands in the bedsheets, even as she's reaching between their bodies, rubbing at her clit as he pushes into her. He found precisely the right angle, of course, and he maintains it with impressive control.

She can't help thinking of how good he is, even like this -- maybe especially like this, his hair damp with sweat, and his eyes completely focused on her, dark with concentration. She can't help thinking that it might have started as non-dynamic, but it sure as hell hasn't ended up that way, not when Tony is watching her like that, desperate with the need to prove himself, not when he clutches desperately at the base of his dick to hold on to his own orgasm so he can fuck her through two in a row, with her hand grabbing his ass to hold him in, to ask for more.

He'd said non-dynamic, but Pepper rolls out of bed afterwards, feeling sated, content, and doesn't think twice about bringing back a wet cloth and cleaning them both up, about wrapping Tony in her arms and telling him how good he was, how right, how he certainly proved his point. Holding him until they both fall asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Steve sort out a few things and the readers' suspension of disbelief is strained to the utmost.

They did ultimately end up telling the rest of the team. Steve would have sworn they wouldn’t have to, that Tony would do that for them. He was chagrined to realize that he’d underestimated Tony Stark yet again, when the next morning, Tony came into the kitchen to retrieve his customary cup of coffee, yawning as he poured, then did a double take when he saw Steve and Natasha.

Steve was braced for whatever Tony was going to say, but instead of announcing it to the whole kitchen, Tony simply turned on his heel and walked out.

After breakfast, Steve found Tony in the living room, slightly hurt by the abrupt departure. But before Steve could get in a word edgewise, Tony all but exploded in a flurry of _sotto voce_ questions.

“Why didn’t you mention that the Black Widow was your mystery Dom? I’m not sure you’ve thought this whole thing through. Is she even a Dom?”

Steve frowned at that last. “I really don’t think that’s your business.”

Tony let this go with a philosophical shrug. “Guess that’s better than ‘yes, but she was trying to avoid topping you, Tony’.” That appeared to be his final opinion on what Steve might otherwise think was prurient interest.

“Speaking of,” Steve said, “Thanks.”

Tony seemed surprised. “For what?”

“This morning. You didn’t say anything when you saw Natasha and me. You could have.”

Tony actually paused, but he took a breath, said mildly, “Believe me, if I’d stayed a moment longer, I would have lost the battle for discretion. Not my strong suit even after I’ve been properly caffeinated and had enough sleep.”

“Still,” said Steve, “We both appreciate it.”

Tony stared at him. “Wow,” he said.

“What?”

“We had like, this whole sub-to-sub conversation yesterday and I actually thought you were starting to respect me, as a person or you know, actual human. But whatever. You’re making insulting assumptions about how, clearly, I would be a-okay with outing my actual teammates without their express permission. Way to go.”

Steve winced. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He could feel his face flushing as Tony said the words ‘sub-to-sub’.

“Natasha would have shot me,” Tony went on. “The ignominy! Shot in my own kitchen.” He threw up his hands and headed for the door.

“Augh!”

Natasha was standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe. Her eyes lit with amusement at the way Tony jumped.

He recovered quickly and smirked at her. "Looking for your boy?"

Natasha said nothing. She met Steve’s eyes and raised her eyebrows.

Steve smiled, in spite of the way he felt his face heat to hear the words so plainly.

“Well, you found him,” Steve said, and Natasha's answering smile was small and crooked and better than any words of approval.

Tony quick stepped around her and out the door, muttering about creepy spies all the way.

***

They did end up telling the team. They had to, in the interest of team spirit and simply because Steve wouldn’t hear of deliberately lying to them.

Not that Natasha objected.

She did object to calling a team meeting to explain it, though, because really? It wasn’t something that they were obligated to explain -- it was something that they were willing to share with the team because they were trusted.

“Well what should we do then?” Steve asked. “I don’t mind if we keep it inside the Tower, just between us. But I don’t like the idea of keeping secrets here.”

They were in bed together, and it was early in the morning, early enough that they were almost certainly the only people in the Tower who were awake on Saturday morning. Natasha had woken up to Steve’s fingers running gently through her hair and his voice saying, “I think we need to talk.”

Natasha considered Steve’s concerns. “It sounds like you don’t mind if I’m toppy with you if it’s just our team,” she said, checking. She didn’t really know exactly how she would act ‘toppy’, but she would come up with something.

Steve nodded.

“Okay.” The idea forming in her mind was a simple, straightforward solution. She gave Steve the general outline of it, and was pleased when he agreed.

“Good,” she said, “Now go make me breakfast.”

Steve poked her in mock outrage, and she writhed out of the way, laughing, and it all quickly devolved into a wrestling that he let her win, clearly angling for a little more time in bed.

Natasha shook her head and gave him a quick peck on the mouth before scrambling to her feet. “Come on,” she said, heading for the kitchen. “You can teach me how to operate that monstrosity that Stark calls a waffle iron.”

***

As expected, everyone responded to the siren call of waffles cooking in the main kitchen — double time to the unmistakable smell of Steve’s secret cinnamon and vanilla special recipe.

Natasha turned out some scrambled eggs and a smaller plateful of pancakes for Clint, who was the only weirdo who actually didn’t like waffles. She wasn’t a great cook, but eggs and pancakes weren’t terribly hard to do. Steve didn’t actually end up teaching her to operate the waffle iron.

By the time the breakfast preparations were complete — Natasha had even sliced up some bananas — the Avengers, plus Pepper and a rather apologetic looking Jane Foster, were gathered together, variously chatting over coffee, or groggily inhaling same.

Natasha sat down and graciously accepted Clint’s thanks for the pancakes before digging into her own.

They timed it perfectly.

She finished her first cup of coffee just as Steve got up to grab the second batch of waffles out of the oven where they’d left them to keep warm. He paused as he passed behind her seat, and gestured to her empty mug, offering a refill — that was nothing remarkable, since Steve was unfailingly considerate to everyone. Natasha picked up the mug to hand it to him, but reached up with her other hand first, hooked her fingers in his shirt collar, and guided him down for a kiss.

She kept it pretty clean, close-mouthed, hands above the waist. But she didn’t let him go until the conversation around the table went quiet and she felt everyone’s eyes on them.

Then she let Steve up and handed him her cup with a little smile.

He’d had his hands clasped behind his back, she noticed, a bit surprised. He ducked his head when he took her cup, but he was grinning too.

Natasha took a quick look around the table, from Tony’s smug smirk to Clint’s fond smile, and Pepper’s open surprise.

Steve came back with the tray of waffles and Natasha’s coffee. He set it next to her plate, and she touched the inside of his wrist briefly in thanks. He was still smiling.

Thor was the first to speak. All Earth weirdness was the same weirdness to him, so that wasn’t necessarily surprising. “Congratulations!” he said with an approving nod.

The sentiment was echoed around the table, even by Jane, who looked politely baffled, though not bothered by it, which was all right. Natasha watched an unlooked for tension go out of Steve’s shoulders, and that was that.

***

It was just a month into whatever this thing was, but once they’d figured out who they wanted to be with each other, their dynamics meshed so tightly that they’d already had occasion to find out that SHIELD didn’t want to let Steve wear her collar, or her cuffs, or anything that might show he belonged to her.

Director Fury had refused to come down on either side of the issue, but Deputy Director Hill and Agent Johnson — the new Avengers liaison — were adamantly against any collaring. _Public image_ , they said. _Social capital is so important these days_.

Natasha would have settled for a discreet chain, like the one Clint wore, and she argued the point with Deputy Director Hill — in front of the Director’s office and in full view of any agent walking by, no less. She left out names and details, but she wasn’t particularly careful about hiding the fact that she’d done it. She wanted Steve to know, after all, that she was prepared to fight for him.

***

None of Natasha’s arguing could change the fact that Steve still hadn’t taken her mark when Natasha ran point in a high-stakes undercover op, featuring her as the bait.

SHIELD mysteriously stopped offering Natasha any undercover ops — ostensibly because the Avengers' faces were too recognizable, though it was amazing what wonders you could work with a good disguise, and who ever really looked at a pretty sub's face? — but she was sucked into this one by accident. It was supposed to just be supervising the op, with Cap providing backup in case the Avengers’ enemy showed face. But then the junior agent screwed the intro, drawing attention of all the wrong kinds, so badly that he was then detained by the big bad’s guardian thugs.

Natasha looked at Steve.

“I can salvage this,” she said, brutally straightforward as always.

Steve swallowed, then nodded. They could talk about it later. For now, he knew, if it was a choice between what he wanted and saving an op and an agent — he had no real right to refuse anything.

But Natasha made the agent in charge, Agent Carter, bring the required disguise items to the small trailer where they were monitoring the surveillance. She stayed with Steve as she got into costume for the job.

“If you say no,” she said, casually, tucking her hair under a black wig, movements spare and efficient, “If you tell me you need it, I will find another way.”

Steve shook his head. He could deal with this.

Five minutes later, Talia Ostrowski was doing up the last elaborate knot on a pair of very strappy shoes, and Steve was doing his best to hide the fact that he was irrationally jealous.

She hesitated before going to the door, then grabbed a wide hinged silver bangle off of the desk. It was a one use weapon that Stark designed. A very subby piece of jewelry.

Talia held it out to Steve then offered her wrist for him to latch it onto, and he obliged her.

Steve thought it might feel awkward, wrong, for him to be the one cuffing her. But instead, he felt a sharp twist of envy as the bangle closed around her elegant wrist.

He couldn’t say what possessed him then, but he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, pleased by the way they overlapped, and said, low and serious, “Be safe. Come back to me.”

She let him have her hand for the moment, but her gaze sharpened, and she gave him a measuring look, a momentary flash of Natasha showing through the character. Then she nodded, and gently extricated her hand from his grasp.

He watched her go, and shoved down the sick feeling in his stomach as he turned to watch on the surveillance screens.

***

Talia Ostrowski was perfect for the job at hand — sweet but clever — and within thirty minutes, she had transmitted the coordinates to SHIELD.

Retrieving the junior agent proved a bit more difficult, though. Something was jamming the tracking frequency and the mansion was full of byzantine corridors and they didn’t have surveillance everywhere.

Valerie Bardas was the head of this little drug smuggling operation, which was rapidly expanding to take on movement and salvage of non-human tech. She’s not expected to come tonight. It was her lieutenant that Talia got the location of the next drop from.

Hearing someone coming up the corridor behind her, she ducked into an alcove, tucking herself into the dark corner behind a deep red canvas hanging.

The footsteps neared her hiding place, and Talia could make out the sound of voices, one cold and authoritative and the murmur of assent.

She counted four distinct sets of footsteps, and only three voices. The cold voice, she recognized.

As soon as the footsteps had passed, Talia tapped her comm. “Valerie Bardas is on site. Requesting backup. Repeat Valerie Bardas is on site.”

Steve’s response in her ear was nearly instantaneous. “Copy, Widow. Hold your position; backup is incoming.”

“Negative,” Talia said, gritting her teeth against the urge to do just that. “I think our junior agent is being held by Bardas. I’m on retrieval. Going silent in fifteen seconds.”

“Natasha, please.” His voice was sweet and soft, and it sent a bolt of possessive dominance up her spine, snagging her breath in her throat.

She thought about Steve’s hand warm and dry around her wrist, loose, engulfing. _Come back to me._

“I’m counting on you, Cap,” Natasha said.

The hall was empty when Natasha ducked out of the alcove and started after the footsteps. The floor was wood-paneled and she was thankful for the soft-soled shoes she was wearing as she made her way silently down the winding halls. Her hands itched for a weapon, but there was still a chance she could get away with pretending to be a lost guest if she wasn’t obviously carrying anything. The only things she’d been able to properly conceal were a couple of small knives. She preferred her chances of luring in a better-armed opponent and taking a real gun.

She followed the faint sounds of Bardas’ group, deeper and deeper into the house. She turned down another corridor, and only avoided being seen because the guard at the other end was still watching the group leave. Natasha didn’t hesitate. She sprinted across the short distance between them and hit the guard hard in the back of the head, swift and precise, catching him as he crumpled and dragging him neatly against the wall, out of immediate sight.

Ahead of her, she heard a door open and close. Behind her, she heard the swift, confident step of Captain America. He must have broken a window to get to her so fast.

She half-turned and paused only long enough to acknowledge him, and to accept the guns and the body armor he’d brought with him. She took the device that was meant to monitor the tracker frequency out of her pocket. A bit of adjustment and the device showed her the blind spots in the frequency over the house. There was a blank space in a room about a third of the way down the hall. She found the door, and gave the Captain a nod.

It was over quickly after that. It was clear that Valerie Bardas hadn’t been expecting two actual superheroes to come to the rescue of a mere junior agent.

The junior agent in question, a sharp faced sub with thick brown hair and brown skin, his eyes a striking green, was suitably awed.

He acquitted himself quite well, all things considered. Took out one of the guards on his own, even after Natasha had confirmed a concussion and a fractured wrist. His formal clothing had included a pale shirt and a jacket, but both were torn nearly to shreds.

Agent Carter had everything wrapped and ready for the extraction, and it was a matter of making the mad dash to the Quinjet, and they were wheels up, objectives completed.

On the Quinjet, the junior agent looked from Natasha to the Captain, looking like he was debating something. “Sir,” he said tentatively. It took a moment for Natasha to realize that the agent was addressing her. “Could you please—“ He bent his head and Natasha saw that the thick gold chain she’d taken to be jewelry actually had a subtle, inline locking clasp.

Natasha was acutely aware that Agent Carter was giving her a close look — as the agent in charge, and another sub, Carter should have been the one removing the false collar. Natasha did it anyway. She was surprised to find that it wasn’t even locked. She glanced over at Agent Carter, a leftover reaction from being super-sweet Talia. Carter responded with a tiny shrug and a sardonic little smirk. Carter would have taken her collar off herself, fractured wrist or no, and that was assuming she let anyone put it on her in the first place. Steve shifted a little uncomfortably.

“Don’t you have a Dom?” Carter asked, when Natasha reached across and handed over the false collar. Most Doms would expect to be the only person putting on or removing a collar for their sub, no matter if it was just for an op.

The junior agent blushed, but said, “Not if he’s going to tell me that my submission is more important than my job. I wanted it off.”

Natasha revised her estimate of the junior agent. Carter gave him an approving nod.

Steve, who was sitting across from the junior agent, glanced down at the bit his lip, just briefly. Natasha pretended she hadn’t seen it for the moment.

***

The silver cuff that Stark had designed had worked pretty well, though Natasha made a mental note that the taser contact points could have been more clearly marked. She left it on through all the post-mission stuff they went through at SHIELD, through the once-over in Medical and through the debrief. She didn’t touch it, didn’t toy with it, but Steve kept looking at it and she noted each time.

When they got back to the Tower, Natasha asked Steve to join her in her rooms. He went with her after a token protest. He seemed a little lost when the door closed behind them, and gratefully accepted when Natasha gestured for him to have a seat at her desk.

Natasha stepped up to Steve and held out her wrist, offering the cuff for him to take off. He stared at it, stricken, before he reached out.

“I like it,” Steve said softly, running his fingers over the cuff, stalling.

Instead of correcting him, Natasha asked, “Why?”

“Because,” he hesitated, then in a rush, “because it feels like you made me a promise.”

Natasha caught his hand and pressed it against her wrist, pleased when his fingers naturally curled around her forearm.

“I know it’s ridiculous,” Steve murmured, without looking up at her. “The Dom does the owning, not the other way around.”

That word — _owning_ — it ran up against something hard in Natasha. That kind of thinking worked well with some — Tony Stark, for one — but she wouldn't have it. Natasha tightened her grip, said, “Hey.” When he looked up at her, she said, “Your place is at my feet — that doesn’t mean I _own_ you. And I did make you a promise.”

She thought about the way it had felt, winning the mark over, the same seductive dance as always. She thought about how this time was no less easy, but it was uncomfortable, an itch under her skin, like walking into hostile territory unarmed, like giving away an advantage, unasked, unpaid.

“I don’t have to take ops like that any more,” she said, and it didn’t even feel like she was giving something up. She never really had to take honeytrap ops — SHIELD had made that clear when she joined — but it was something she was good at, and she’d never minded. She’d liked that she had the skill to make all those rich and dangerous Doms dance to her tune.

“If you hadn’t taken it today…” Steve shook his head. “That’s not fair for me to ask that of you.”

“SHIELD would have worked something out,” Natasha said. She didn’t miss that he hadn’t said ‘no’ to her offer. Natasha didn’t particularly care what SHIELD would have come up with if she hadn’t stepped in when she did.

“You did the right thing,” Steve said, frowning slightly. He hooked the edge of his thumb under the silver cuff and tugged gently. “I’m glad you let me put this on for you. I don’t think I could have sat through it if you hadn’t. If it comes up again — if it is necessary, like it was today — I want you to take it.”

His hand tightened briefly on her wrist before he let go. “I just need to know you’re coming back for me.”

No well-trained sub would have used that language to express their concerns. A well-trained sub would have been on his knees, would have addressed her from a position of subservience, supplication, would have asked. _Please don’t let your consideration for me get in the way of what needs to be done_. Natasha was all the more aware of this because it was what she would have done. She had to admit that she liked Steve’s dynamic a lot better. It made her feel respected, trusted, as if he had every confidence that she would take his words at face value and give them the consideration that they deserved — no begging required. He really did, and she really would.

Natasha put her hands on his shoulders and leaned down, kissed his forehead. “I’ll always come back for you, darling. Thank you for telling me.

“But right now, I want to take a shower. Take this off for me.” She offered the cuff to him again. She could have taken it off herself, of course. At first, she’d wanted to try and figure out Steve’s fascination with it, and now it seemed only right to let him be the one to remove it.

Steve nodded, and flicked open the catch. The cuff fell open into his hands and he set it on the table.

“Come with me,” she said, careful to make in an invitation and not an order. The orders would be able to wait until after he’d accepted her invitation.

He smiled and followed at her heels when she turned towards the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COMICS! *jazz hands*
> 
> I threw up some ideas for this in a desperate attempt to hit 50k of any fic for NaNoWriMo, and it got TOTALLY out of hand. Expect more, including a ton of porn and at least one chapter of Pepper telling Tony what a slut he is (you know, in a sexy way).


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SHIELD had regs, and the regs said that everybody, Dom or sub, got punishment for breaking orders. A sub's punishment could be remanded to their Dom, or under special circumstances, to a Senior Agent.
> 
> Natasha isn't a Senior Agent, or officially a Dom, but an Avenger ought to be able to pull some strings, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: implied past non/dub con

Steve was already bent over the disciplinary agent’s desk, pants around his thighs, when Natasha burst in, gripping the official memo from Director Fury.

She’d had to all but threaten him outright to get it, but the important part was that she _did_ get it.

"Stand down, agent."

The disciplinary agent fumbled the strap he was holding, before he could set it aside. Natasha realized that it had come out in her field tone, as sharp and efficient as a razor. She was still on, after having to stay behind to help flush out and apprehend the last stubborn member of an AIM cell, barely having time to rush through a shower before she had to speak to Director Fury.

Steve, not particularly suited to searching through close-walled alleys and mouldering tenements, had had a chance to shower and change and even comb his hair before reporting for punishment. He glanced up at Natasha, quickly, like she might not notice if he didn’t draw attention to it. His jaw was set and he was blushing bright red — he turned his eyes determinedly away when she tried to catch his gaze. That wasn’t good; the last time he’d looked like that, he’d almost safeworded out of kneeling for her.

The agent accepted the Director’s memo with admirably steady hands.

"Punishment is remanded to the Avengers," Natasha explained, talking to Steve, who was doing up his pants and fastening his belt with undue focus. He was listening even if he wasn’t looking at her. "His team was in the field, they will decide what he deserves."

Steve was icily silent as they walked down the corridor to the Quinjet. He was the one who had disregarded a direct order. SHIELD had regs, and according to the regs, everyone, Dom or sub, got punishment for the same infractions.

Natasha herself had only pulled punishment once before, deliberately disobeying just to see if SHIELD really could make good on its promises to a sub who they didn’t even trust — you won’t have to fuck anyone you don’t choose, your punishment will be the same regulation ten strokes as any other agent. They had. There were plenty of things that SHIELD did that were underhanded and sneaky, but they kept their promises.

Once they were alone, he finally turned to her and said, "This is ridiculous. Ten strokes is nothing."

Realization dawned. He might as well have told her _I don’t need your protection for this_. Natasha took a deep breath and let it out slow, concentrated on not letting her voice betray too much, concentrated on her posture, on getting the casual glance at him just right, so she didn’t have to worry so much about how much she was revealing when she told him the truth.

"That wasn’t really for you," she said evenly. "I was jealous."

Silence. Natasha glanced over again, and almost lost it. Steve was staring at her with an expression of stunned surprise, as if it was such an unexpected answer he’d never thought it even a remote possibility.

"I’m probably just going to give you the same ten strokes that the disciplinary agent would have," Natasha admitted.

"That’ll be a real incentive for me to obey orders in the future," Steve said, but that was reflex sarcasm.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "It was a bullshit order anyway, so the punishment will match up nicely." Anyone who thought that Captain America wasn’t always going to choose the path that saved lives, and damn whatever orders he’d been given, was seriously deluded.

"You traded your capital with the Director to get my punishment remanded," Steve said. It was only the truth, but Steve’s tone said he understood what that meant. That was fine. She’d been hoping that he would understand it.

"Not a lot." That was true, too, since the way she’d laid it out was, _do this for me if you want to keep your secrets._ More of a threat than a favor. The fact she'd all but told Fury that she was compromised was trade enough, as far as she was concerned.

"I don’t like other people seeing you that way," Natasha told him.

Steve smirked, still a little angry. "Cussing every time the leather touches my ass?"

It made Natasha look away from the controls to give him an over the top leer. That earned her a surprised laugh.

"Still," he said, as the Tower’s landing pad came into view, "I could have taken it."

"Of course you can take it," Natasha agreed. "I just _really_ want to be the one dishing it out."

"Yeah," said Steve as she guided the ‘jet to a vertical landing. "I think I’m starting to get that."

***

The team was assembled in the living room, but it was the work of a moment for Tony to step up and say, "It was the same choice any one of us would have made, but apparently it was against orders, so. Blah blah, We’ve collectively decided to let your Dom handle it. Blah blah blah. Have fun you guys!" and quickly usher the rest of the team out of the room.

Steve stared after them, his neck flushing, and he said, "We aren’t going to — I mean, right _here_ , are we?"

Natasha fixed him with a look, slightly amused. "Do you want to?"

There were cameras that they could get JARVIS to turn off or make private, there were doors that they could close, and windows they would draw the blinds over. But it was a still a common area and Steve shuddered with the idea that someone might walk in, even after they were done, and just _know_. "No," He said. "Yellow, definitely."

Natasha would have called that reaction red, and she noted for the future.

"Okay," she said, "My rooms, then."

She put him down first — it wasn’t regulation, but no one in the Tower would talk, and they all knew that it had been the right decision.

"You know you did the right thing, don’t you, sweetheart?" Natasha got out the strap and put it on the bed, in front of her boy. He was on all fours, waiting patiently for her.

"Yes, Sir," he murmured.

"Ten strokes with the strap, because you made the right choice." She held up a flogger, "Ten for saving those people from being hit by a bus." Natasha thought for a moment, then took out the cane, and watched her boy lick his lips in anticipation. "Ten with this, for no reason other than I want to see you hurt for me."

It was harder to say than she’d wanted it to be, now that it wasn't a joke, but it was worth it for the way he looked at her, and said, "Please, Sir," as if she’d hit on something huge. She did want to see him hurt for her, to give over his pride and show her how much he wanted it, how much he enjoyed it.

The cane and flogger went on the bed in front of him, next to the strap. He fixed his eyes on them eagerly.

One of the Doms he’d saved had looked up at Captain America, and actually said the words, ‘My hero!’

Natasha ran a firm hand down her sub’s spine, and gripped the meat of his ass, hard enough that it would have left bruises if he hadn’t been enhanced.

The strap was a good warm up, and she made him count, steady. The flogger left narrow lines of darker red on his skin, and when she ran her hand over his ass and thighs, he rocked back against her.

"Patience, darling," Natasha chided. She picked up the cane.

She was thankful that she had spent so long working with Clint, learning how to transfer good aim from one weapon to another. The first stripe landed across the top of his ass, and she kept an even rhythm for the next ten. By the time she got to six he was breathing hard; at eight he made a bitten off cry; nine and ten were punctuated by yelps of pain, and still when she put the cane down, he made a soft, almost disappointed sound.

Natasha used one hand to grip his ass, digging her fingertips into the raised red welts. With her other hand, she rubbed through her own slickness, circling her clit. She pushed two fingers into her cunt — oh, she’d _missed_ that. Her hand on his ass grabbed tighter and he shouted in surprise, unable to help the push back of his hips, trying to get more. He dropped down to his elbows, panting, as she eased up. She rocked her hips, grinding her clit against the heel of her palm, enjoying the press of her fingers inside of her cunt, the sight of her sub with his ass in the air, and she came with the hot skin of his ass under her hand.

"I want you to come too," she said, "I think you deserve it."

She nudged his legs apart so she could kneel between them. Her hips pressed against his abused flank when she reached forward and pressed his upper body to the mattress.

He whimpered when she withdrew, but she quieted him with a hand at his hip, anchoring, and she said, "Be still," in warning.

Then she leaned down and put her mouth on his balls. The sound it drew from him was beautifully desperate, and she could see his whole body tensing with the struggle not to move. "Such a good boy," she murmured. "So good for me."

She didn’t keep it up for very long, but she didn’t really have to. She pulled back and draped herself over his body in a mimicry of fucking, and reached around to stroke him to completion.

He came with a gasping cry, grinding back against her, rubbing the caning welts against her hipbones, not even really aware that he was doing it.

After, when she had cleaned him up and arranged them to her liking, he murmured, "Thank you, Sir," sweet and soft. Natasha compared it to the way he’d sounded when she’d first remanded the punishment, offended that she thought he was weak, and for the first time she thought she might be doing this right.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rope bondage part one

Of the two of them, Steve knew a lot more about knots. He’d been in the Army, after all, and raised a Dom. One evening, he came to Natasha’s room with a skein of rope and a pair of safety shears, and said, “I’d like to show you a few things.” With a hopeful smile, he added, “And I’d like it if you used those things on me, after?”

Natasha held open the door for him.

They spent a few hours going over different types of knots that Steve knew, which was just the very basics. Natasha liked the way he talked about the rope — voice low and enthusiastic, hopeful — more than she liked the idea of tying him up with one continuous piece of rope, but she really did like the way his expression went slack and adoring when she looped the first coil around his waist, practicing.

“If you really like this, I can look up a few more things,” Natasha offered, as Steve talked her through tying off the ends of a simple harness. He had taken off his shirt at the start.

“I’d like that,” Steve agreed quickly, half-turning to face her. “I never bothered to learn more than the basics, since I —,”

Natasha stepped around to maintain her position, caught his wrists and guided his arms behind his back, and he cut off mid-sentence with a soft gasp. 

“I meant, I can look them up right now,” she said. She held his wrists — barely — in one hand while she used the other to grab her StarkTab from the end table and look up ‘plain box tie’.

There were a slew of results, but JARVIS had helpfully filtered a few links from reputable Dom Ed sites and put them at the top of the list.

Natasha picked the one that looked like it had the least array of dire warnings about the dangers associated with incorrectly executed rope bondage — she wasn’t _actually_ a first time Dom pushing her sub’s limits without any prior experience. She’d had this tie done to her often enough that she was confident in her ability to tell the difference between ‘safe’ and ‘tolerable but not good’.

She pulled up a picture, and held the tablet up so Steve could see it.

His breath caught, and he said, “Yes, please, Natasha.”

She propped the tablet on the couch and positioned him so she could easily see both the instructions and what she was working on. With both hands free, she moved his wrists to they were both facing out, raised them to the proper height, and clamped down around them, just about where the rope would go. Steve’s head dropped forward immediately.

“Deep breath,” Natasha said, tracking the movement of his upper body as he obeyed. “That's good, darling.”

She started to tie him, working from his wrists up to his shoulders. It was nice — she could see how it would be a good way to refocus, the precision required to get the tie just right, the subtle hiss of the rope as she pulled it through, the measured pace of her own breath and the heat of her sub’s skin under her hands. Still, the thing she liked best was the little hitch in Steve’s breathing every time she laid another loop of rope across his arms.

In the end, she tucked the excess rope ends neatly under, and ran her hands over the completed tie. “Everything feel good?” she asked.

“Yes, Sir,” Steve breathed.

She turned him around by his shoulders, and was pleased with the way he looked at her, open and trusting. She made quick work of his pants, draping them over the couch, his boxers following after. “Come with me.” She led the way to her bedroom.

He was already far enough under that he went easily when she knelt him beside the bed. For a minute, she’d thought about putting him on the bed, ass up, and beating him, but she didn’t want to break the quiet, almost meditative mood. She understood now why rope bondage and candles were so popular together.

Candles would have been easy enough to get hold of — one word to JARVIS and they’d be delivered by robot within ten minutes — but Natasha wasn’t a fan, of the flame or the mess. Besides, there was a big difference between a toppy gesture at the breakfast table, and letting Tony Stark find out that you had asked JARVIS for candles in a complete set from white to black.

Instead, she pinched him. It was next to impossible to pinch super soldier skin hard enough to bruise, but she did her best, and even succeeded in some places. He gasped at first, then arched into her touch as she lay a line of hard pinches down the front of his chest.

He moaned when she twisted the skin at the join of his hip, inside of his thigh, and he strained to spread his knees wider. She covered the pale skin at the insides of his thighs with little red marks, and he groaned, and worked his hips in abortive tiny motions, desperate for her touch on his cock.

Natasha was aware that her own heart was beating harder, that she was wet, just from watching her boy hurt for her. She pulled back a moment, asked, “Are your hands okay?” and obligingly her boy opened and closed his hands, no circulation issues. Satisfied, she wrapped her hand around his cock suddenly, basking in the startled, high sound he made at the contact. The way he bit his lip, restraining himself from arching right up into her hand.

“It’s all right, baby,” she murmured, keeping her voice low. “That’s good. I want you to come in my hand.”

She put her other hand on his thigh and dug her thumb into one of the bruises she’d made, and it only took a few strokes before he was mewling and coming all over her hand.

After a few moments of letting him recover, she wiped her hand on the top sheet, sat on the edge of the bed and made him use his mouth on her. He bent to the task and obeyed her, making a pleased sound at the back of his throat when she pulled at his hair. He was getting better at this. While she’d always kept up a running commentary of praise and direction before, this time she was silent, and she found that he had learned to follow the guidance of her hand. She rested her foot on his thigh and pressed against the bruises, and he moaned, sending a shiver of heat and vibration right against her cunt.

They’d have to renegotiate on penetration, she conceded, when she realized she’d started grinding against his tongue in anticipation, hoping he’d lick into her. She missed the feeling of being full, the slippery-slick sensation of _taking_. But that would have to wait until next time. For now, it was enough to ride his face, to listen to the sounds he made and watch him struggle to accept that the rope binding his wrists was not to be broken.

She jerked up against his mouth and came, shoved his face away before he could keep lapping at her clit. He whimpered a little, until she smoothed a hand through his hair, reassuring. “That’s my good boy,” she said, “Easy, baby. You did well.”

He was hard again, but he didn’t even really seem to notice, so she let him be.

The rope took a while to take off, but she let her boy rest his head against her thigh while she reached over and released his hands. After it was done, she urged him up onto the bed and gave his arms a massage, working her hands into his muscle. She wrapped the blanket around them afterwards and kissed him, smiling at the way he opened easily for her. He cuddled in close, and she put her hands on his skin, a promise of protection

***

In the morning, they talked about it.

It had been a little bit frustrating, too restrained, ironically, for Natasha’s taste. She liked to feel that she’d worked for something, that she’d earned something. She liked the effort of the swing and the sound of the blow and even the satisfying backwash of stinging in her palm. Then again, she could concede that if she was ever in the mood for quiet, something slow-burning and focused, she knew what she’d choose. She made a mental note to get a case of spring-clamps, or plastic clothespins, just in case.

“But I’m happy to do it, occasionally. I think I’ll like anything that you really like,” Natasha said, just to be clear.

Steve nodded thoughtfully. He still blushed a lot when they talked about sex, but he had always been completely honest, so she made sure not to tease him about it.

“Sometimes I need — I want to feel grounded in my body. Pain helps. The rope stuff — that helps too.”

Natasha considered this, noted that he hadn’t said, _grounded in_ this _body_ , which was a good sign, though it was a definite reminder that it had barely been a handful of years, from his perspective. She had liked the closeness, the warmth of his skin under her hands, a more concentrated version of working on their individual after-action reports while she sat on the couch with her legs folded under her and he sat on the floor at her feet, her shin pressed up against his body.

“I’d like it better if it wasn’t sexual,” said Natasha. “An end in itself, if you will, rather than a means to an end.”

“I don’t think—,” said Steve carefully, “I think I would be aroused by it no matter what.”

Natasha raised her eyebrows, her expression schooled to unimpressed. “It’s cute how you think that just because you have an erection I’m going to have sex with you.”

At her words, Steve blushed bright red, but there was something adoring in his expression when he glanced at her, almost as if he was grateful that she’d put him in his place.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a short chapter about informal negotiations.

Steve liked to take her on dates, which was another odd thing that she didn’t mind. Natasha would be just as happy to get dressed up and she would smile at him across the table in whatever place he’d chosen, and they split the bill.

He’d asked her once, if she wanted to stop doing it, since he wasn’t going to stop being a Dom in public, he didn’t even really know how he’d do that. It was already so natural for him to take that role. But she’d been quick to assure him that she liked the dates. And he suspected that she was just as used to presenting as another orientation as he was.

So today, he’d been secretly enjoying the way she clung to his arm on the walk back to the Tower, the warmth of her body so close, the glimpse of skin showing at the neckline of her sleekly fitted dress. And so what if he liked her hand in his because he knew it could easily turn into a tight grip, bruising and possessive -- a sub was allowed to think that of his Dom.

They got home, and Natasha sat down, and Steve went to remove the pins from her hair without being asked. Natasha smiled her approval in the reflection.

She put her hand on his when he leaned across her to put the pins away. When he looked up, she said, “I want to renegotiate on penetration.”

“Okay.” He said it too fast, gunshot-sharp agreement because he’d already determined he wouldn’t let himself say no, not to this.

Natasha’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, he felt, pierced, transparent, and he thought he’d offended her, then she drawled, smiling slyly, “If you were that eager to fuck me, all you had to do was ask.”

It took a minute for Steve to process those words, and another minute for him to respond. "I -- you. Me?" he stuttered. 

Natasha grinned up at him, said, "Yeah, you, me," firmly, like it wasn't a joke. "I want to. I miss it. And I imagine it'll be better if I'm the one in control."

“But I… what?” said Steve, confused. He thought it might be because she thought she owed him something. He remembered the slick hot pulse of her body, and he was a little ashamed of how much he wanted it, knowing that he shouldn’t, not like that. “Don’t you want —” Natasha cut him off. 

“I _want_ to ride you,” she said, rising fluidly, right up into his space, so that he had to take a step back.

“You don’t have to, you know. I could --,” Steve tried. He’d tried it on himself a few times, when she was away on missions, it wasn’t amazing, but it wasn’t bad. He could see how it would be good if it was something he could give to her. Steve hated the idea that she might be coddling him. 

Natasha put her hand over his mouth, light but certain. "New rule. If you want something, you ask for it. If you think _I_ should want something, you keep your mouth shut, understand?"

Steve blushed bright red, but when she dropped her hand he said, “Yes, Sir. Okay.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Steve try something new. Natasha drops (kind of), but it's all good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the BLOODPLAY chapter -- proceed with care

“You said no bloodplay,” Steve mentioned. 

Natasha looked up from sharpening her knives, then back down at her hands. “I did, initially. We can renegotiate,” she said carefully. “Hard limit: I won't do anything that would be dangerous even to someone who didn't have the serum.”

“But you'd cut me?” Steve said.

Natasha tested the edge of her knife, and smiled. “Yes,” she said, “If you ask me to, I will.”

“Please, Sir,” Steve said, obediently, “I want you to cut me with your knife.”

***

That night, when she had him on his knees, she traced the flat of the blade along the expanse of his shoulders, up the sides of his strong thighs. 

“You’re so lovely, darling. It will be a shame,” she said, casually, “To cut you up.”

She thought she’d give him a few minutes to get used to the idea of the blade, to gauge his reaction, now that the knives were out. 

He’d sounded very certain when he’d asked her, but now his breath turned ragged and harsh. He shook when she traced the point of it across the backs of his hands, bad enough that she pulled back rather than risk gauging him by accident.

He had his head down, but she didn’t need to see his face to recognize the hitch in his breath.

“Red,” Natasha said, dropping to her knees in front of him.

“I can take it, Sir,” Steve said, shaky but obstinate, “I can.”

“Look at me, darling.” “We don't have a safeword so that you can defend yourself,” Natasha told him, “We have a safeword so that I can protect you. If you won't use it, I will.”

She put her blade back in the sheath and set it down far enough away that it wasn't immediately to hand, but still in Steve's line of sight. He tracked it for a moment, but then he dropped his head and let out a sigh, consciously relaxing his posture and leaning into her.

“I thought you were going to cut me,” Steve said. Now that he was recovering his composure a bit, he didn't sound like he was afraid. He sounded disappointed.

It gave Natasha pause. ”You wanted me to cut you,” Natasha said, checking.

“It's okay,” said Steve. He shook his head. “It’s just that SHIELD won’t let me--” He cut off sharply. “Never mind. It's stupid.”

“Baby,” said Natasha, “talk to me.” She cupped his face in her hands and gently brushed her thumbs across his cheeks, settling, reassuring. He kept his eyes averted, though, even when she tilted his chin up, giving him permission to look. She didn’t push.

“Scars used to be as good as a collar, in some parts of town,” Steve muttered. “Used to be the only kind of collar some couples could afford.”

Natasha realized that it must have seemed like she was telling him that she’d changed her mind -- that he wasn't good enough to collar. 

_How can you be so sure?_ she thought, in a kind of wonder, _How can you be so sure you want to belong to me?_ Except Steve Rogers was no fool, and he was the one who had met her eyes across the living room and asked her to cut him. He wanted to belong to her. She thought abruptly about how he’d said “I trust you to know from the other side too.”

She picked up the knife again and moved in close, straddling Steve’s lap.

“I'm sorry, baby,” she murmured. “I didn't realize you were asking for my mark.”

“It's fine,” Steve said, but he was looking up at her now, with a quiet gleam of hope in his eyes. “It won't last anyway.”

“It's fine because I'm going to fix it,” Natasha told him, pressing the edge of the blade against his chest.

It was razor-sharp, the same as all her knives, and she was intimately familiar with the feeling of a knife edge dragging through flesh, but she wasn’t expecting the way Steve’s breath caught in his throat when she made the first, slow cut, or the way he stared up at her, eyes blown with submission and gratitude.

Blood welled up from the cut, and slowly trickled down to the towel she held pressed against his ribs. It was the first time she’d encountered the copper-bright smell of blood without it being mingled with something else -- cordite and sulfur, or leather and sweat -- war and violence.

She knew this kind of pain, the way it started out stinging, bright, and turned to a sharp, insistent ache. The body’s first reaction was to fight it, all the way to the core, tense up until the hurt wrapped around heart and breath alike. 

She carefully carved four shallow lines into the left side of his chest, two crisscrossing diagonal lines, and two horizontal lines, to make her symbol. She murmured a string of praises as she worked, _You’re so good, so strong. You’ll take anything I give you, won’t you, baby? You’re so good for me_. By the last one, he had started to cry, steady and unashamed, tears sliding down his face. 

“There,” she said, pressing a clean towel over the cuts, relishing the way he leaned into the pressure of her hand, and exhaled at the pain, as if she’d reached in and pressed the breath out of him. “That shows you're mine.”

***

In the morning, Natasha put her hands on the scars, the skin already healed, new and pink, barely raised. There was a feeling -- terrifying, overwhelming -- growing just behind her ribs. 

She was aware that she wasn't maintaining control of her expression, knew her eyes were pinched at the corners and her jaw was visibly clenched.

“Tasha?” said Steve, and it was soft, but it was not uncertain.

“I didn't know,” said Natasha, rueful, “that I would like it so much.”

_Like it_ \-- that was an understatement. The way she felt was huge, not just _like_ , not even something she could call love, not quite, this in-the-bone contentment.

Steve inhaled when she touched the marks, full, happy. It knocked the breath out of her, somehow just as powerful as the small, hurt sounds that he made last night, when her blade sank into his flesh.

“This is hard for me,” Natasha admitted.

“It’s okay if you don’t want--” Steve started, cutting off with a gasp when she pressed her fingernails against the sensitive new skin.

“Oh, I _want_ ,” Natasha assured him. “That’s kind of the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

Natasha paused before she answered, let herself search for the right words, if those words existed. He didn’t say anything when she cupped his face in her hands, thumb tracing the corner of his mouth -- the gentle touch felt good, but there was the underlying knowledge, now, that she didn’t have to settle for a gentle touch, not ever again. Steve watched her steadily, patiently. 

“You can’t think the worst thing I’ve ever done is kill people for money.”

“I’m not stupid, Natasha.” But he turned his head to kiss her palm, to show he didn’t mean to start an argument.

“I was made-- no, I was _designed_ to do this,” Natasha said, allowing her hand to curve lightly against his jaw, fingertips brushing across his mouth. “To make people feel pain, to make them suffer. It’s a brutal art, and there’s no one better. That skill is a part of me; I take pride in it.”

“Sensation play, including pain, is part of a well-rounded dynamic,” Steve said, “You know that.”

Natasha sighed. “If I like it because my boy likes it, that makes me a good Dom.” She dug her thumb in and up, pressing hard on the nerves under the jut of Steve’s jawbone, until she knew it would leave a mark, and his breath caught. She dropped her hand. “Except I don’t. I like it because I’m hurting you.” 

She ran her fingers through his hair, combing it back from his face, a repetitive, soothing motion. “I want to take care of you. I’m doing my best, but this intention, this cruelty -- it’s part of who I am.”

Steve caught her hand and pressed it against the scars, covering it with his own. His hand was warm, as always, and it covered hers completely, neatly. “Who you are is enough,” he said. “I need you to hurt me. It isn’t suffering; it’s certainty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh, there wasn't any sex in that chapter, either. Sorry, everyone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Steve and a meditation about punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think there's anything I need to warn for in this chapter, but let me know if I missed something.

At first, Natasha thought it would be tough to come up with an appropriate punishment, since there was nothing she could do to make him hate the strap. Frankly she was afraid to try hurting him until it wasn’t sexy any more, not just because he didn’t seem to have those limits, but because she was afraid that _she_ might not. And if that was the case, she really really didn’t want to know about it.

There were, of course, things that she knew he didn’t like. Cold was one. Humiliation was another.

They came back from a mission with the Avengers, and they were clean but tired, and Steve had not only been issuing orders to the team all day but also had to help Fury run interference with the WSC, protecting the rest of them. He was ready to drop, Natasha could see it, and it wasn't even a struggle to get him on his knees, for once.

But she tied him in a neat harness, and brought him off once, fast and rough, and then settled in with him on the couch, stretching out, obviously aroused, but disinclined to do anything about it. She leaned up against the arm of the couch, one knee tucked against the arm and the other foot on the floor, so that she could have his head in her lap, cradled against her hip. Her own arousal was a simmering warmth under her skin, in her core, and she was just as happy to savor the feeling, knowing she’d wake up refreshed and still horny, with her sub right there so she could fuck him stupid.

Steve came up enough to trace his fingers up her thigh, and when she glanced at him, he asked, “Do you want me to?”

“Not now,” she said, unable to keep the fondness out of her voice, not seeing any reason to.

But he looked confused, said, “Don’t you want me to serve you?”

Natasha took him by the chin and scanned his face for any hint of insecurity, but all she saw there was confusion. “You’re lovely as ever, darling,” said Natasha, pitching her voice a bit more stern, “but I’m not in the mood to fuck.”

That should have been warning enough, except he repeated the movement of tracing his fingers up the muscle of her thigh, and he said, “Sir?”

It didn’t worry her to take his chin in her hand and drag him up her body until he was eye-level with her. It didn’t worry her to demand, in a hard and level tone, “What is the rule, boy?” It didn’t worry her that he looked so young and ashamed, contrite, when he said, “Don’t tell you what you should want, Sir.”

“Right.” She gripped the harness and shoved him off the couch and to his knees, easily anticipating the awkward way he moved and catching him when he faltered. Sometimes it happened when he was in headspace.

“Are you going to punish me?” he asked in a small voice.

“I am.” And that? that worried her, because she knew how it was supposed to work. The punishment was supposed to be a clear establishment of boundaries, putting her sub in his place, assuring him that she could enforce the rules she made, demonstrating that she both knew what he needed and was capable of providing it. But she had never experienced a well-executed punishment before.

_There's a first time for everything_. She left him kneeling by the couch for the moment, and went to get the gag.

It was bit gag — not as popular a style as a ball or ring, but one of the first things they’d agreed on was that he would always be able to breathe easily. The rubber bit would prevent him from talking, was the important point. It had actually been pretty difficult to find one that wasn’t specifically designed for animal play. But she’d asked Pepper, counting on the idea that if anyone knew how to keep a sub from talking too much, it would be Tony’s Dom, and sure enough, Pepper had directed her to a small, upscale store that did nothing but custom silicone work. The slim silicone bar attached to a leather strap had been ready in hours.

Natasha snagged a keyring on the way back to the living room.

Her boy looked at her anxiously when she crouched down beside him.

“What did you do wrong, boy?” she asked again.

He flushed and looked at the floor, but answered, “I broke the rule. I don’t tell you what you should want.”

“That’s right,” she said. “It’s my responsibility to handle the decisions and in order to do that, you need to respect me, you need to trust me. I’ll take care of both of us.” She put the keys in his hand. “You know what these are for?” she asked.

Steve stared. Then nodded, looking miserable. “You’re taking away my word.”

“Only until I am satisfied that you trust my decisions.” She held the slim silicone bit up to his mouth. “Open.”

He hesitated, but she didn’t. She slapped him with her other hand, and repeated the order. This time, he obeyed, taking a deep, shaky breath, right on the edge of sobbing.

“That’s it,” she said, infusing her tone with approval, as she secured the straps behind his head, keeping her movements fluid and sure, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. “You’re going to wear this for me tonight.” He looked crestfallen. The feeling she got seeing him like that was almost pleasure. Not quite. More like slow burning certainty, the knowledge that she’d chosen correctly. They stayed like that until his breathing eased back to something steady.

She kissed him gently on the forehead, a little reassurance that she had no intention of leaving him to endure this on his own, and then got her hands on the rope harness and tugged him back up onto the couch, resuming the position that they had been in before he got presumptuous. At first he was a little tense, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, but she rested her hand on his neck — a shorthand for _trust me_ that didn’t feel as dishonest as those specific words in her mouth — and waited him out. Sure enough, he relaxed after a minute, resting his head comfortably against her thigh.

After a little while he started to drool. She could see the pink flicker of his tongue, the working of his throat as he tried to swallow properly, but it still ended up trickling down his chin and leaving a spreading damp spot on her pants. He made a soft noise of distress when he noticed this and tried to shift so that he wouldn’t be getting it on her, but she wasn’t having it. She said, “Stay where you are,” and gripped the twist of the harness at his shoulder to hold him still in her lap, until he subsided, casting an apologetic look up at her.

Natasha smoothed his hair back and smiled. “There you go, baby, that wasn’t so hard. Stay where I put you.”

He dipped his head in acquiescence, but wouldn’t meet her eyes as the wet spot on her pants spread.

She kept petting his hair, keeping up the measured rhythm, even when she noticed that he had stopped fidgeting, accepting the dampness under his cheek.

She’d considered the idea of pretending to read, to ignore him -- that was what you were supposed to do for punishment, it was common knowledge -- but she saw how far and how fast he went under, from on his knees for her to completely under her command, and thought the better of it. _Trust me to take care of you_.

It had occurred to her, when she was still in the planning stages, that enforcement of her control would necessarily be intense, but it didn’t have to be negative, notwithstanding the designation of ‘punishment’. Ignoring her boy, even faking it, came too close to dishonesty. It would be needlessly cruel, treating him like he was her possession, especially when he went under for praise so easily.

She threaded her hands through his hair and realized that she didn’t know if the dampness on his face included tears, and that she wasn’t worried about it. Her boy was relaxed against her, leaning sweetly into her touch, posture open and vulnerable. Even if he could fake these signs, he wouldn’t.

Eventually, she helped him to his feet. The whole side of her pants was damp and stuck a little to her skin, but she ignored that. He stood in front of her with the keys still clutched in one hand and his head bowed, a faint flush coloring the tips of his ears.

“Let me see you,” she said, reaching out and tapping him on the jaw.

He flushed darker with shame, but he raised his head obediently, so she could examine the ends of the gag pulling lightly at the sides of his mouth, spit dribbling down his chin.

“Look at you, my handsome boy,” she murmured, tracing the edges of the rope harness down his chest. “So eager to serve. You want to be so good for me.” He nodded and made a quiet, affirmative sound. “I know, baby, I know,” she soothed him, “And part of that is you serve me — you’re so good at that — but the other part is you let me look after you.”

Hooking her hands in the harness, she guided him to the bedroom, then onto the bed, arranging him so that he was kneeling on the mattress, knees splayed wide and hands resting lightly on his thighs. She stripped and joined him on the bed, knelt up behind him, pressing her breasts against his back, rubbing them against the silky soft rope. She reached ran her hands over his ribs, along the harness where it formed a series of diamonds up the center of his chest. His nipples were already tight, and she plucked at them, rolled them between her fingers, scraped her nails lightly over them, until he moaned at every touch and arched into her hands.

She hooked her chin over his shoulder so she could look down his body, wrapped up in her dark blue harness, his cock standing out hard again, jumping every time she pinched both of his nipples at the same time. “My darling, you are lovely,” she murmured into his ear. Even this drew a moan from him, her breath against the sensitive skin of his neck. “Let me kiss you,” she commanded him, and he turned his head to obey, even at that awkward angle, even with the bar of the gag in the way, she slipped the tip of her tongue into his mouth, licked at his stretched-out lips, his spit-slick chin.

She drew back, and he made a sound of loss and it was all she could do not to kiss him again, but she knew what she wanted more, and she bit lightly at his ear, and said, “Let me take care of you.”

He was pliant enough that it was easy to push him back and get him lying on the bed, feet flat and knees akimbo. He tracked her with eyes blown-black, adoring, attentive.

She settled between his legs and gave him one warning, “Be still,” before she licked his cock from root to tip.

He wailed around the gag, and his shoulders came off the bed, but he didn’t thrust into her mouth. She wrapped her arm around one of his thighs for better access, holding him splayed open, reminding him not to thrust. It had been a while since she’d given a blow job, and it had never been like this before — even if a Dom had given her the opportunity to prove her skill, she’d never been allowed to touch like this, to hold and anchor.

This too, was infinitely better when she was in control. Her own orgasm was all but an afterthought, a slick press against clit, a distant wave of pleasure and satisfaction.

She had a fair idea of what her boy liked, and she put that knowledge to use, fluttering her tongue against the underside of his cock, just the faintest scrape of teeth on the upstroke. He clutched at the sheets until they creaked with strain, and he let out a little sob when she pressed her knuckle just behind his balls.

The noises he made got increasingly desperate, and she realized that he was trying to hold back for her. She pulled off with a wet lick, her hand still curled around the base of his cock and looked up at him. “Hey,” she said, “It’s okay to come, baby.”

She’d meant it was okay for him to come in her mouth, but no sooner had she said the words, than he pulsed in her hand, and came all over his stomach and her fingers. A little of it caught her on the chin.

“Oh,” she said, stunned, pleased. “That’s good, you’re such a good boy. So perfect.”

She released him with one last pet, and grabbed a handful of tissues from the box by the bed. He made soft, helpless little noises at the back of his throat when she cleaned him up, and she crawled up and kiss him as soon as she was done. She undid the buckle on the gag, and coaxed his jaw open, drawing out the bit, so she could lay a proper claim to his mouth.

He moaned happily, yielding easily to her, open and unresisting, and when she drew back, he merely licked his lips and smiled at her. She took the keys from his hand and laid them next to the gag on the nightstand.

“Thank you, Sir,” he murmured, as she freed the end of the rope harness and drew out the central cord, unraveling the whole in just a few movements.

“Lesson learned?” she asked, after checking him over one last time and tucking the covers around them both.

“Yessir.” His words starting to blur with sleep, “You take care of me, Sir.”

She kissed him on the cheek, then lay down to follow him into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Natasha's got kind of a stone top thing going in this chapter -- that was just how it worked out.
> 
> I meant to post the Pepper/Tony-immediate-aftermath to follow up on Chapter 3, but it went from debrief to negotiation to sexy times to first date to *media backlash* to... well, suffice it to say that it's utterly out of control. Writing is hard!


End file.
